Trial by Fire
by paintallthestuff
Summary: Getting her in was the easy part. How Clint wins Natasha's trust, friendship, and more. Can be read as the sequel to The Price of Freedom.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This is a sequel to The Price of Freedom, but you don't have to have read that to understand this... although it's recommended! ;)**

* * *

It began, as it always did, with probation.

Day 10 of his two week confinement to base, and Clint was going stir-crazy. When the initial chaos involved with getting assigned new quarters and a partner died down, time seemed to slow down just to spite him. The seconds stretched into minutes, hours shifted into days, each blending seamlessly into the next. Even after spending hour after hour at the shooting range, Clint had far too much time on his hands.

The fact remained that despite his boyish, immature tendencies, he had never gotten along with any of the other junior agents. Clint Barton tended to generate three reactions in his colleagues: jealousy, grudging respect, or lust from the younger SHIELD women, which caused even more of their male counterparts to gravitate towards options one and two. It didn't help that he was a mystery to most, keeping to himself as much as possible. So with no friends to speak of, and two royally pissed superiors, he really only had one choice for company.

Surprisingly, _Natasha_ the defected teenage assassin was faring much better. Unlike Clint, Natasha generated just one reaction: fear. Many were jealous of her abilities, and questioned her place in this agency, but an overwhelming fear pervaded everything else. She seemed to have embraced this at an early age, as she turned a blind eye to the blatant dislike and hate directed at her when her back was turned, and didn't question why everyone scrambled to get out of her way. Dividing her time between the SHIELD library (which Clint hadn't known existed), the tech department, and the training rooms, she only returned to their shared quarters to sleep, sneaking in late at night and slinking off at the crack of dawn. He saw her less than the rest of base did, and so his last hope for companionship had dissipated.

He was pacing back and forth in one of the corridors on the fifth floor, pondering all this when it happened. Picking up on the stampede of technicians, young field agents, and intelligence analysts headed down the hall towards him, Clint sighed and looked around for a place to hide. He wasn't quite ready to face Fury yet- it seemed his boss was still sore about his blatant disregard for protocol, and he had issued some… _interesting_ threats at their last confrontation. Pulling himself into a storage room, Clint leaned against the door to wait for the telltale signs that Fury had passed.

They didn't come.

"Director," Coulson greeted directly outside the door.

"We need to talk," Fury replied curtly, all business.

Thir voices lowered to whispers, and Clint strained to hear what they were saying. _Espionage… no other choice… still on probation… too risky… really?... Barton can… _Clint snapped upright when he heard his name. They seemed to be debating a mission- the one hope he had of getting out of this hellhole. Unfortunately, this realization had caused him to miss the rest of their conversation.

"I'll drop by your office later this afternoon to sort out the details," Fury finished, raising his voice to the normal volume, and then strode down the hall. Clint waited until Coulson's footsteps faded in the distance, then scrambled out of the closet.

He needed to know what they were talking about. And he knew just how to find out.

* * *

The air vents at SHIELD were extensive, clean, and most importantly- spacious. Clint strode through the halls, craning his head upward to find the optimal entry point. It had to be positioned so he could easily locate Coulson's office, but also so no one would find the removed grate for a few hours. A maintenance worker had screwed the hatch back on while he was still inside once- that had been extremely unpleasant, and resulted in severe reprimands and probation.

Rounding a corner, eyes fixed adamantly on the ceiling, he slammed into a solid object. Reeling backwards, he looked down to find a pair of cat green eyes peering up at him reproachfully.

"_Natasha?_"

"Do you have eyes, Barton? _Watch where you're going_," Natasha hissed, picking herself up off the ground.

"What are you doing up here?"

"Looking for Patricia," she replied smoothly.

"On the seventh floor," he deadpanned, not buying it for a second.

"I got lost." She said after a few moments. Clint snorted in disbelief.

"_Bullshit_. You could find your way back to medical after being blindfolded and taken halfway across base!"

"Not everything makes sense."

"Most things do."

She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. " Fine- Coulson wanted to see me."

"No he didn't! He has to-" Clint cut himself off hastily. It wouldn't do to give himself away. Unfortunately, she had already picked up on his hesitation.

"Do you know something?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"That depends- do you know what I think you know?" he countered easily.

"Do you know what I think you know I know?"

"Do you know what I think you know I know you know?"

"ENOUGH," she screamed, running a hand through her crimson curls, breathing deeply. "Were you on the fifth floor near the R&D center half an hour ago?"

"_You know!_"

"_Yes_. And I heard them mention us, so I need to find out what they have planned."

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Clint drawled. She held up a small metal disk in response, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Let me guess. You stole that from R&D when Patricia's back was turned, and now plan to just stroll into Coulson's office and plant that under his desk?" She nodded again.

"That's a stupid ass plan. They have cameras and bug sweepers in there. Plus, you're on probation- if they find out you're as good as dead."

"Well, do you have a better plan?" she spat the words out venomously. It really didn't take much to annoy her.

"As a matter of fact, yes- but you are not coming. Now, if you'll excuse me." He turned on his heel, but barely made it two steps before a small cold hand clamped down around his wrist. She yanked him back to face her, pulling him down by the neck of his shirt so her face was inches from his.

"Try to stop me," she growled, then shoved him back. Clint sighed, dragging a hand through his spiky hair. She was right- there was no way he could keep her from following.

"Try to keep up," he muttered, then continued his search.

* * *

Clint slid forward on his stomach, staring down through the grate at Coulson's desk. Natasha followed just as silently. The vents were only wide enough to accommodate one person's width, but she refused to let him tell her what occurred. After a bit of maneuvering, she ended up half sprawled on top of him, head jammed next to his. Clint breathed deeply, refusing to let his rapid heartbeat betray him. It was all for naught- when she exhaled, he felt the puff of air on the nape of his neck, and couldn't help an involuntary shiver from creeping down his spine. Judging by her huff of amusement, she knew _exactly_ what she was doing to him.

Thankfully, Coulson entered, and all further activity was suspended. For the next hour, they stared down at the top of his head as he worked through some paperwork, mumbling to himself. Natasha wriggled on top of him, trying to get comfortable, and Clint had to bite his tongue to stop himself from shivering again. The vent groaned, and she froze, slowly lowering her body until her mouth were right next to his ear.

"Is that normal?" she whispered, lips brushing against his earlobe. He gave a noncommittal shrug in response, and bit down on his cheek so hard he tasted blood.

The phone rang, the sound cutting through the still air. Coulson picked up on the second ring.

"Coulson," he said by way of greeting, and Clint tried to make sense of the one sided conversation he was having- presumably with Fury.

"Yes sir… I understand… Right away sir… Briefing Room 4?... I'll alert them immediately." He hung up, then leaned back in the chair, sighing heavily. After a few tense seconds, he leaned forward, reaching for something under his desk.

Clint shifted to the left to see what was under the table, while Natasha leaned to the right to keep her eyes on Coulson's face. The opposing motions caused her to fall off her perch on his back, landing with a thud on her side beside him. An awful shriek of metal on metal echoed through the vents, and their section slipped a few inches downward. They only had time to shoot each other a single horrified look, before it gave completely.

**OoOoOoOoOo**

* * *

Coulson was having a rough day even before his roof caved in.

Fury's news had really put a dampener on his mood. Leaning back in his chair with a sigh, Coulson pondered how to break the news to Barton that his punishment was going to be cut short- again. He could just imagine the cocky grin that would creep across the bastard's face, and the snarky comments he would have to endure all the way to their destination.

Reaching beneath his desk, he groped for the tiny silver case in which he kept his most Captain America trading cards. Sorting them always calmed him down. Before he could so much as close his hand around the box, an ungodly screech resounded in his ears. Looking up, he spotted a few small cracks in the plaster. That was all the warning he needed.

Coulson dove under his desk, and milliseconds later the ceiling collapsed. Several heavy thuds could be heard from above, and plaster exploded on the ground, throwing up clouds of white dust. A crash made Coulson jump, and he spotted a sleek metal ramp of sorts from under the desk. After two white objects tumbled to the ground, the room lapsed into silence.

After a few moments, Coulson slid out from under his table, and eyed the destruction speechlessly. Chunks of plaster covered the ground, there was a gaping hole in the ceiling, and chalky dust covered _everything_.

A groan brought him to his senses, and he swung around to locate the source of the noise. One of the white things- _people_, he realized- rolled onto its back, then slowly sat up, rubbing at its head. When the ends of familiar dirty blond hair was revealed, Coulson put two and two together.

"_Barton?_" Said agent groaned again in response, rubbing dust out of his eyes. When Clint could see again, he eyed Coulson and gave him one of his famously infuriating grins- the one that never failed to make Fury's vein twitch. He then cleared his throat.

"You wanted to see us, Coulson?" he rasped. That did it.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? YOU FUCKING DESTROYED MY OFFICE RIGHT AFTER LANDING YOUR ASS IN FUCKING PROBATION FOR IGNORING PROTOCOL. AT THIS RATE YOU WILL NEVER EVER LEAVE THIS BASE AGAIN," Coulson screamed, then paused for a moment to breath. Suddenly something clicked. "Wait… _us_?"

"Shut. Up." A new voice moaned, coughing violently. Coulson looked over, and spotted a pair of familiar green eyes.

"_Romanoff?!"_ Oh god- this day was only getting worse. He quickly assessed the situation. He had approximately ten minutes to get these two and himself cleaned up and presentable, make sure they hadn't been injured, and restore some order to his office. It would take a minor miracle, but he had been through worse- as Barton's handler you had to be a bit more… flexible then usual. Taking a deep breath, Coulson prepared himself for the worst.

"Tell me exactly what happened. From the beginning."

* * *

Fury slapped two files down on the table, sliding into a chair. Natasha leaned forwards in anticipation. Coulson had forced her down the stairs to shower in her quarters, after herding Barton down the hall to his own room. After standing under the spout for a few minutes to clean some of the gunk out of her hair, she shoved on some new clothes and ran back up to the sixth floor. Fury had entered with all three of them already present, and was none the wiser as to the destruction across the hall.

"Ignore those for a moment." Natasha hesitantly withdrew her hand. "Now, you two are probably wondering why you're getting pulled. Well, I had a realization the other day. We are wasting a _perfect_ opportunity. What's our advantage?" He peered at them expectantly.

"Um… we have little miss badass ninja assassin?" Barton offered, ignoring her look of burning hate. No one called her little miss _anything_.

"That too, but I'm thinking of something we won't have soon, a window that's getting smaller every day." Barton screwed up his nose, brow furrowed. After watching him think for a few seconds, she decided to put him out of his misery.

"No one knows I'm working for you yet."

"Exactly!" Fury exclaimed, then opened a file in front of him, sliding it across the table to her. Turning it around, her eyes fell upon a small photograph.

"No."

"Andriy Gricenko," Fury continued, ignoring her. "We need him dead and some of the intel he keeps locked up tight. The last few agents we sent didn't get anywhere near him. After Agent Hart came back half-dead, courtesy of his henchmen… well, we need a new strategy."

"Well, your agent is lucky he or she wasn't brought back in a _match-box_. Gricenko is a force to be reckoned with."

"Yes, as you know from personal experience. If anyone has a fighting chance of getting alone with him, it'll be you." Natasha laughed bitterly in response.

"Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on? Who is this guy?" Clint asked, clearly irritated.

"Gricenko is the very definition of a self-made millionaire. He's an entrepreneur, but not in the usual sense. He sells information."

"What?"

"The value of secrets should not be underestimated. A handful of papers can be worth more than gold- in the right hands. He blackmails the rich for a living." Natasha explained.

"Oh. Ok, fine, he's a slimy little bastard. But what does Nat have to do with all this?"

"_Don't_ call me that. And he's my ex-boss."

"So? No ones's a better interrogator- he'll hire you." Natasha sighed. It seemed like nothing could penetrate that thick skull of his.

"I said _ex_-boss. Last year I stole enough blackmail leverage to put half the executive branch of the Bulgarian government away for a very long time, gave it to one of his rivals, shot three of his best assets, set the police on him, then robbed him of a hundred grand and escaped to Spain."

"Holy… and you're going to send her back to him? She might as well be wearing a sign around her neck that says SHOOT ON SIGHT!"

"We believe she has the means to take him down. Romanoff?"

She thought for a moment. Gricenko was dangerous, but she wasn't called the Black Widow for nothing. He was also exceedingly vain, and proud to a fault. It would be easy to get back into his good graces… as long as she played the situation right. Besides, she had other… assets at her disposal as well.

"I can do it."

"Good." Barton opened his mouth to object, but Fury soldiered on. "Your window is a party he is hosting at his mansion two days from now. It's supposed to be a fundraiser for some obscure charitable organization, but a lot of guests seem to have ties in the black market and mafia, or backgrounds as hired thugs. Eastern Europe's finest is also attending. You'll have to get yourself in." She nodded, and he turned his attention to Barton.

"You're her eyes from above. Get up on top of one of the guardhouses or climb a tree. Keep her in your sights whenever possible. Coulson will have backup on hand. Some of the intel is suspected to be on a flashdrive in his safe, so you'll need a few techs with you. Coulson will give you the other details- I have some other business to attend to." With that, he swept out of the room, leaving the team in silence.

Barton cleared his throat. "So… where are we going?"

"Ukraine."

* * *

**Please let me know what you think! I won't be able to update as frequently as I had during the Price of Freedom. School started again, and I have a lot of work to do. But I will try to post a chapter at least once a week. Keep in mind that reviews= motivation to write more frequently!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Aaaaand I'm back! Here's part 1 of the mission... you'll understand why it's split after reading it.**

* * *

"So… how do you plan on getting in?" Barton asked from the cockpit, breaking the silence once again. Natasha sighed, slumping forward. She had thought that since Clint would be up front flying the plane, she wouldn't have to put up with his endless chatter. No such luck.

"I'll improvise," she replied, massaging her temples. His incessant questioning was beginning to get annoying. She had gotten by on her own for years and years, and now on their first mission he expected her to let him direct her actions?

"I just think that maybe you should have a basic plan… so you're prepared." That did it. Natasha unbuckled her seatbelt and stomped over to the nose of the plane. Slapping a hand on the autopilot button, she whirled his chair around and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt.

"I don't have a plan because there are no guarantees my line of work. There are about a thousand things that could go wrong at any given time when your on the ground- if you don't go with the flow, you end up _dead_ in an alley. So how about you do your job and let me do mine?" She hissed, then promptly released him and walked back to her seat.

Coulson chuckled appreciatively as she reclaimed her seat. "Can't tell you how many times I wanted to do that over the years." She ignored him, settling down with her book. Six hours later, they began their descent into the SHIELD base in London.

They disembarked, and Coulson passed Natasha a plane ticket, fake passport, a wad of cash, and a plastic bag with two comms and a stack of papers. "Barton and I will be taking a separate flight. Do not contact us before the event- we'll rendezvous at the SHIELD safe house afterwards. You have reservations at a hotel- address is on the papers. Any questions?" She shook her head, and a taxicab pulled up next to them.

"The car will take you to Heathrow airport. Good luck."

* * *

Gricenko's mansion was just as she remembered it- a squat, long building with elements from nations all over the world mashed together, forming one of the ugliest buildings she had ever seen. With men in tuxedos and women clad in evening gowns milling around on the lawn, it was a comical sight. She reflected on all this as she slipped her comm into her ear, under the guise of adjusting her earrings. Judging by the crackling on the other side, Barton was getting into position.

The car pulled up in front of the mansion, and she slid out. Barton sucked in a breath, then let out a low whistle. She smirked, knowing that the two hours of dress shopping yesterday had definitely paid off. The dress was a deep crimson, setting off her flaming hair and porcelain skin simultaneously. Sleeveless and cinched at the waist, it hugged every curve before falling to her feet. Adding an extra sway of her hips into her walk, she made her way over to the front doors, drawing appreciative glances from the male patrons and looks of burning hate from their dates.

The staff at the entrance were no different. The two burly men standing guard had their eyes fixed on her chest, and the balding man checking the guest list gaped like a fish out of the water. She raised a delicate eyebrow, and he lowered his eyes down to the list. "Uh… um… name?" he croaked in Russian.

"Natalia Romanova." She purred seductively in her native tongue, leaning on her elbows to give him a good look at her cleavage. Barton gave a nervous chuckle in her ear.

"Give the poor man a break- he's going to have a heart attack. And did you just give him your real name?" She paid him no mind, flashing a dazzling smile at the butler instead. He looked up from the list, face and neck beet red.

"Sorry, ma'am, you aren't on the list."

"No, I'm not," she said in response, allowing her face to fall into an expressionless mask. The two guards instantly stepped forward, but she held up her hands.

"Touch me and I'll kill you. Tell Gricenko the Black Widow is here to see him." The name obviously meant absolutely nothing to the men, but the suggestive undertone stopped them in their tracks.

"The boss said not to disturb him tonight. Come back some other time- I don't want to get fired." The taller of the two said.

"You'll be worse than fired if you tell him I came by and wasn't let in." They stopped to think for a few minutes, then decided to take the safe way out.

"Yuriy, go get the boss." The butler gave a squeak of surprise and fear, but meekly stepped off his podium to go inside.

"Thank you, boys," she drawled, flashing them a sweet smile. They waited in tense silence for a few moments, but even that couldn't last.

"What are you going to do if he tells the guards to shoot you?" Barton asked. She forced herself to not think about how very screwed she would be if that actually happened.

Thankfully, the butler showed up right then, flanked by another guard. "You're to wait by the bar until he shows up. He said," the man licked his lips nervously. "He said any funny business and the guard will shoot you." She nodded graciously in response, then slid through the doors, the guard following a few feet behind.

"Barton, stop staring at my ass and cover me," Natasha murmured in English, weaving her way between other party-goers.

"What- I never-" He spluttered indignantly. She snorted.

"Your reaction's betrayed you already. Plus, I can feel your eyes from 100 meters away. Stare any harder and you're going to burn a hole in the fabric." Smirking at the sound of his ragged breathing and muffled curses; she sidled up to the bar. The bartender promptly dropped the glasses he was cleaning. Hastily sweeping up the broken glass, he got up and asked her what she would like to drink, adamantly staring anywhere other than her.

"Smooth," Barton teased in her ear. She ignored him and ordered a fruit cocktail like the socialite she was playing would. She didn't have to wait very long. Soon, a few more thickset men began to take places along the wall. Moments later, Gricenko showed up with another retinue of armed hostiles.

"Well, well… Natalia Romanova. What a pleasant surprise." Gricenko spoke in heavily accented English- he had always had a penchant for pretending to belong to better nations.

"Andriy," she purred in response, batting her eyelashes.

"Save your little tricks for someone else. Now, this is no place to have our reunion. If you'll follow me…" he led the way through the ballroom, through a smaller door, and up a flight of stairs. Half the guards followed a few steps behind, and soon they stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door.

"Inside," Gricenko ordered. She complied, noting that the room had floor to ceiling windows against one wall. They appeared to be in a small study of sorts.

He followed her inside, then signaled to one of his guards to check her for weapons. He patted her down, one hand steadily creeping down her backside. She swatted his hand away when it got too far south, and Gricenko chuckled.

"I'd be careful with that one, Sergey. She eats the likes of you for breakfast." He stepped over to a side table and poured a glass of champagne, then leaned back to survey her.

"Take her shoes," he commanded. One of the men stepped forward, and she slipped out of the heels and handed them over. The guard handed a shoe to Gricenko, and he turned it over to inspect the heel.

"No knife today? Hmmm." He took a sip of champagne, and Natasha gave him the same once over. Andriy Gricenko was by no means an ugly man. With close-cropped black hair, chiseled cheekbones, and deep blue eyes, he seemed the kind of man girls would swoon over. He clearly knew it, as he casually leaned backwards to examine her once again.

"So… our little spider has come home. Under what terms, though?" he mused, swirling his glass. He beckoned to the guards, and three of them instantly leveled their weapons at her head. He came closer, and trailed one finger down her cheek.

"How old are you now? 18? No matter. What I really want to know is what made you betray me last year."

She stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "They paid more." He gaped at her, then threw his head back and laughed.

"You always were a special one, Natalia. Now, others in your place, they beg and plead, playing dumb, telling me they were always loyal to me, and only me. Do you know where they are now?" he said menacingly. She knew very well, having delivered some of the deathblows herself.

"I know what I am. Why hide it?" She responded easily, careful to keep her voice devoid of any emotion.

"Well said. Besides, you taught me an important lesson. I should never have trusted a single person with that task, especially not a woman like yourself." He took another sip of champagne. "But, you did betray me. What are you doing back here, hm?"

"I need a job."

"What happened to the employer who stole you from me?"

"He got careless, and too attached. I had to dispose of him." She allowed a tiny smirk to creep across her face.

"You ARE a dangerous creature, aren't you? But, why should _I_ take you back? You robbed me of a great profit."

The moment had come. Forcing herself to keep the mask in place over her features, she gave him a seductive smile. Stepping closer, heedless of the guns, she ran her fingers up the front of his shirt. "I'm sure I can make it up to you."

She had him- that was plain enough. He fought hard to keep his composure, but his eyes were darkening with something she was far too familiar with, and he _was_ staring down at her cleavage. "And how do I know you are still as good at your… _job_ as before?" he asked, keeping his voice empty of his true intentions.

She slowly rose up on her tiptoes, and involuntarily, he leaned down so her lips were directly next to his ear. "I'm sure you'll find out soon," she rasped, biting down lightly on his earlobe. That did it. Pupils blown wide with lust, he motioned for the guards to leave the room.

* * *

Clint stared through the scope, mouth wide open as she made a move on Gricenko. When the guards commenced leaving the room, comprehension dawned on him.

"Jesus Nat. You're too young for this shit. You don't have to do this!" She gave no indication that she had heard, but he knew she was at least thinking about his words. Before he could say anything else, Gricenko returned, two champagne flutes in his hands. She took one when it was offered, with a gracious smile.

"You do know how to throw a party, I'll give you that. The last function I attended ended at _11 o'clock_." The slight emphasis on the time and the small dip of her head in his direction made him pause.

"Was that meant for me?" She inclined her head again, under the pretext of examining her glass. Gricenko got the wrong idea.

"Do you think I intend to poison you?" he asked, at exactly the same time Clint asked "my 11 or yours?" Natasha didn't even bat an eye.

"_My, my_… that would be absolutely pointless. You could have shot me anytime." She smiled coyly. Clint swerved the scope to her left, and saw the safe. Examining it, he tried to recall the crash course he had received from the tech department not three hours ago.

"Ok… biometric sensors, keycard, and password required. Get to work." Setting her glass down on the table, she sauntered over to Gricenko.

"Shall we?" He slammed the glass down and pulled her to him by way of response, promptly shoving his tongue down her throat. Clint clenched his fist. It was a sickening sight. Natasha performed admirably, however, giving a throaty moan and wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands wandered up to her chest, but he didn't so much as touch her before hers moved around his neck. In a second, he was lying on the ground, head twisted at an awkward angle.

She knelt beside the body, digging through his suit pockets.

"What the hell was that Romanoff? You need a password!" She held up a keycard triumphantly, then looked at him through the window.

"Relax. I know what it is."

"How?!" She only smirked in return. Gripping the key card between her teeth, she dragged the body across the room. Pushing his hand up to the biometric sensor, she simultaneously swiped the card. The keypad popped out, but she shoved it back in without entering anything. The safe hissed open, and she scanned the contents.

"Ok, fine. Next time check to be sure. That's a risky move. And what the hell _was_ that? You didn't have to kiss him at all. You're seventeen, for Christ's sake-" Her head snapped up, and he knew he had gone too far.

"Do not bring my age into this ever again. I grew up a long time ago, and you will not lecture me like an insolent child." She snapped, glaring at him. He dropped his gaze in shame, unconsciously honing in on the safe. He spotted the thread a second too late. He gave a warning cry, but her hand had touched the hair thin wire. He watched in horror as it severed, and by Natasha's alarmed gaze, she had just seen it too. For a second, nothing happened.

Then the air came alive with the sound of sirens.

* * *

**So... thoughts? Please review! I'll be back with part 2 of the mission sometime next week- expect plenty of action, car chases, humor... the works. **

**On a different note, I am now an official beta reader! If you're interested, send me a PM.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, that wasn't a very long wait :) But just in case some of you guys have a short memory span like me, here's where we left off: Natasha and Clint are in Ukraine taking down a target. In the midst of an argument, she set the alarms off.**

**A big thank you to all those who have favorited/followed/reviewed this- you've helped this take off. Special thanks to jr, birdy, Guest, and kitkat123130- since you guys don't have a fanfiction account I couldn't respond to your reviews via PM, but I just wanted to thank you for all the support!**

* * *

Natasha grabbed the USB and made it three steps toward the windows before the door broke down. One glance showed twenty odd guards making a beeline toward her.

"Barton, blow up the window."

"But-"

'NOW!" she screamed, diving behind a desk as bullets tore up the carpet where she had been standing seconds ago. They would be on her in seconds. Thankfully, a thud against the window distracted her pursuers for a split second. Seeing the flashing red dot on the arrow attached to the glass, Natasha rolled a filing cabinet in front of her. Milliseconds later shards of glass sprayed across the room, embedding into the floor, walls, and bodies of some of the guards.

In the chaos that followed, Natasha ran out from behind the desk, leaped through the jagged hole in the window, and launched herself over the balcony. Catching one of the pillars at the last moment, she hung for a second before letting go, landing on the ground with a skillful bend of knee. She appeared to be in the backyard, so she turned and ran around the house to the front.

"Where are you?" she hissed.

"The roof of the guardhouse."

"Got a plan?"

"Well, I did, but the alarm kinda screwed it up."

"_Now_ you understand what I meant by going with the flow?" She had to stop talking as she passed a guest. Rounding the corner, she found herself on the front lawn. Natasha kept walking forward, eyes darting around trying to find an escape route. Her eyes landed on the jacket of a party guest, and then she had it.

"New plan. Meet me by the valet at the front gate."

"The FRONT gate? You can't be serious!" She ignored him, changing course to head toward the guest. She angled her body to appear as if she was simply passing him, then pretended to trip. Her hands pushed against his chest as she caught her balance, and the man caught her under the arms, helping her upright. She giggled right on queue, swaying slightly.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked, concerned. She _did_ appear to be drunk.

"Yes. So sorry. I'll get out of your way," she replied meekly, pretending to be embarrassed. She slipped through the crowd gracefully, heading toward the gate. Drawing a few curious gazes, she remembered her shoes were missing. Picking up the pace, she walked through the gate and headed toward the valet stand. The valet hastened to help her when she producing the ticket she had nicked from the man's jacket pocket with a bored air.

A silver Mercedes pulled up, and the valet got out, holding the door open for her. "Oh no, I'm waiting for-"

"Hello, _darling_." Barton's deep voice sounded from behind her. Whirling around, she glared at him, but quickly arranged her facial features to play the adoring wife.

"Yes, _dear_, like I was explaining to this man here, you'll be driving." Barton grinned, then put an arm around her waist and led her to the passenger's side. Opening the door with a flourish, he gestured inside. Throwing him one last glare, she got in. He got in on the driver's side, then finally pulled away from the ugly monstrosity of a house, leaving the bewildered valet standing on the curb.

Barton dropped the act, turning his head to look at her. "Why didn't you just drive off? They aren't looking for me- I would have made it back to the house just fine." Natasha sighed. He hit the nail on the head.

"I can't drive."

Clint chuckled, shaking his head. Meeting her quizzical gaze in the mirror, he explained, "the one thing that teens your age can do just as well as adults universally, and you're inept."

"For the last time, _don't_ bring my age into this," Natasha retorted. Did he want to die? Barton's response died on his lips as a spray of bullets shattered the back window. Before she knew it, Natasha was on the floor of the car, having ducked reflexively. As another round of bullets hit the rear of the car, she hastily dug through the pockets of Barton's cargo pants.

"Geez Nat, if you wanted to get into my pants, all you had to do was ask," he jested.

"Not the time, Barton! Where's your gun?" Sensing that she meant business, he cut the jokes short.

"Tac-vest, left side." She reached across his chest, cursing as she fumbled for the weapon. Feeling cold metal, she closed her fingers around the barrel and yanked. Clint jerked to the right, and the steering wheel followed him. Careening across two lanes, he fought to steer the car back on course, face the color of chalk.

"Jesus Nat, that's dangerous!" She shrugged, sneaking a glance at the side mirrors. Six SUV's were currently following them, all of which had a gunman hanging out the right window. Amateurs.

"How the hell did they find us?" Natasha moaned, then trailed off. Looking between the gun and Barton, her eyes narrowed. "You wore combat boots and a tac-vest to stake out a _gala_?" The valet must have called security seconds after they pulled away- the man had weapons strapped to him in plain sight!

Barton laughed uneasily, but before she could continue another round tore through the trunk of the car.

"Let them take out one of the wheels, and I'll shoot you." She adjusted the headrest of the car seat. As long as none of these pursuers had Barton's skills, she wouldn't get hit.

"You don't know how to drive. You can't kill me." Barton said, keeping his eyes on the road, seemingly unfazed.

"I said _shoot_, not kill." Natasha took out the two shooters on the right in quick succession. The third ducked inside the vehicle, so she moved to the left, taking out another. The remaining henchman had now retreated inside the cars, so she turned her attention elsewhere. She shot two drivers in the forehead, causing their respective cars to swerve out of control, sandwiching a third in the middle. Taking out the front wheels of another, she was satisfied that all six cars would cause no further problems.

Turning around, she slumped in the seat. "That's done."

"Nat." She studiously ignored him, refusing to give him an opening to talk about 'typical teenage habits'.

"Those men are _idiots_. Who sticks their heads out the window?"

"Nat."

"So where's this safe house?"

"NATASHA!" Barton screamed, gesturing wildly at the mirror. Taking a look, she spotted… no less than twenty armored SUV's.

"Take the exit." Natasha directed, fighting to keep her voice calm. They didn't have enough ammo to take out all twenty. If a solution didn't present itself…

Barton swerved off the main road onto a dirt track, winding and twisting through a dense copse of trees. Natasha continued to dismantle as many operatives as possible, and Barton kept driving, miraculously keeping the car from sustaining any irreparable damage. But their luck couldn't last. A log had obscured the left side of the road, so Barton kept the car to the right. A hiss of air was the only warning they had before the car swerved sharply. Clearing the log, they careened down the road, with the SUV's gaining.

Moving out of the trees, a bare 200-foot stretch was revealed, with the banks of a river and several bridges on the other side. A bell clanged in the distance, and then Natasha's eyes fell on the railroad track.

"Step on it, Barton." He gave her a bewildered glance.

"Are you fucking insane? There's a train coming!" Fuming, she clambered across the divide. Half sitting in his lap, she stomped on the gas pedal. The car sped up, careening toward the tracks. The bell clanged again, much louder. One glance showed that the train had rounded the corner, and was now powering toward them. Fifty feet left.

"Nat. _Nat_. NAT. NATASHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Barton screamed, voice rising with each rendition of her name as they got closer and closer to the tracks. The train was almost on top of them, and if Barton got any louder he was going to blow out her eardrums. Growling, she slammed an elbow into his diaphragm, effectively cutting his voice off midstream. The front wheels hit the rails, and for a second time seemed to slow down. The interior of the car was lit with harsh yellow light, and the train was literally ten feet away. Then, they were through, having missed becoming a splatter of paint by milliseconds.

Natasha lifted her foot, and Barton stomped on the brake. They sat there gasping for a few moments. Then, he turned around and heartily voiced his disapproval.

"ARE YOU SUICIDAL? DON'T _EVER_ PULL SHIT LIKE THAT AGAIN!" She shoved the car door open, and climbed over him to get out. One look at the scene in front, and her heart sank. The train maneuver had been for nothing. There was no escape route in sight. The ground was flat, with no shrubbery or trees to take cover behind. Their only options were the rails behind, the emptiness on either side… or the water ahead.

Barton had reached the same conclusion. Closing his hand around her elbow, he pulled her toward the water. "We jump. It's not too deep."

"No." Natasha said, digging her heels in. He looked at her, incredulous.

"You're fine with driving in front of a fucking train, but not with falling twenty feet into a river? Where's the logic in that?"

"I can't swim."

"YOU CAN'T-" Clint cut himself off, rubbing his face. Turning, he examined the train. Another ten seconds, and their pursuers would be free to follow. There was really only one thing to do.

"Well, a girl's gotta learn sometime," he said casually, standing behind Natasha. Her eyes widened as she realized what his plan was, but it was too late. His hands slammed into the small of her back, and before Natasha could stop herself, she was stumbling one, two, three steps forward trying to regain her balance. Only two connected with the ground.

"BARTONNNNNNNNNNNN!" She screamed as they plummeted toward the water. She was silenced mid-scream as the water closed over her head. Sinking from the force of the collision, she flailed wildly, but for once her body didn't obey her. The glimmer from the surface was only a few feet above her head, but it might as well be the moon. Her lungs had begun screaming for air, and dark spots crowded her peripheral vision. The Black Widow, in the end, would die from lack of swim instruction.

Closing her eyes, she waited for the end. Instead, two warm hands gripped her around the elbows. Her eyes flew open, just in time to see Barton's face inches away from hers. Wrapping one muscled arm around her waist, he kicked his feet, and after a few smooth strokes they broke through the water's surface.

Natasha coughed, then desperately sucked the crisp night air into her lungs. After a few sharp breaths, she realized that somehow Barton had maneuvered them beneath one of the bridges. Then came the awareness that said man still had an arm wrapped tightly around her waist, keeping her afloat. As soon as he was sure she was now coherent, he let go, and she promptly resumed thrashing.

"Nat, stop!" She did just that, and began to sink.

"Oh Christ," he muttered, hauling her back up with a pained grunt. "Will you just listen?" When she nodded, he continued, speaking slowly. "Ok. I'm going to let go of you in a minute. Don't thrash. Keep your eyes on me, especially the way my legs are moving. Imitate me, and for god's sake calm the fuck down!" She narrowed her eyes at that jab, but grudgingly acknowledged the logical aspects of his plan.

This time, when his arms retracted, she held her ground. Clint began kicking his legs under the water, with deliberate and powerful strokes, his arms moved in similar circles. Clumsily, Natasha followed his lead. After a few awkward thrusts, she seemed to get the hang of it, though she was still moving far more erratically than her partner.

"Good. Now, we need a way out."

"Barton."

"Maybe we could dive down and swim to the next bridge."

"Barton."

"Yeah, probably not…" he mused. Natasha sighed in frustration, then reached a hand up to slap him square across the face.

"What the hell was that for?" he all but screamed. Panting with the effort of treading water, she pointed to the left. Somehow they had both missed the small ledge against the side, with the maintenance shaft placed smack in the middle of the weathered stones.

"Why is there a shaft in the middle of a river?" he asked in confusion.

"This is probably where they dump their sewage."

"Ewwwww," he whined, screwing up his nose. For a moment he looked just like the petulant child Natasha was certain he was at heart.

"Shut up," she commanded, hauling herself out of the water and prying the door open. Wrinkling her nose at the stench, she descended into the foul abyss, Barton hot on her heels.

* * *

Coulson stepped out of the shower, coffee mug and newspaper in hand. The paper slipped out of his hand, and as he stooped to pick it up, he noticed two sets of mud prints leading into the kitchen. Frowning, he followed the prints, but stopped dead in the doorway. Dimly he registered that his coffee mug had slipped out of his fingers, shattering on the floor. Both agents turned around in an instant, leveling weapons at his forehead, which only added to the bizarre scene before him.

Clint, wielding a ladle, had his Kevlar vest slipping down his shoulders, half the straps undone. He was also covered head to toe in what Coulson hoped to high heaven wasn't Ukrainian shit. Judging by the smell, his odds weren't good. Romanoff, if possible was even worse off. Barefoot, with little holes all over her soaked dress, brown gunk splattered across her cheek, and two pistols pointing at his head, she was a comical sight full of contradictions. Both his charges looked like drowned rats that had been caught in a sewage explosion.

"You've got a little something there…" Coulson couldn't resist saying, gesturing toward his cheek.

"Shut up," Romanoff mumbled, pushing past him into the main room. Looking back to Clint, he raised an eyebrow.

"No, you most definitely do not want to know." Clint muttered, not quite meeting his eye. Coulson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was going to be a shitload of paperwork to deal with when he got back to base.

* * *

**Yes, I know- Coulson is used shamelessly as a plot device. I just think he's a perfect impartial third party, and it's so funny the ay he deals with Clint and Natasha's antics! _The Price of Freedom_ readers know the drill- the next chapter will be devoted to Fury's… fury! Anyone else excited? ;)**

**Reviews from you guys really make my day (hint, hint). Maybe you could write one? Purdy please?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys! Really happy with how this turned out- there's plenty of reprimands from Fury, but there's some fluff toward the end for all the Clintasha shippers out there :) As always, enjoy and review!**

* * *

Clint got the call ten minutes upon setting foot back at base. He and Natasha had trudged up to their quarters hoping to take a hot shower and collapse into a comfortable bed, but the phone rang after just two steps toward the bathroom. He swore Fury had planned that on purpose- he was always doing this to people right before he screwed them over.

"Barton." Clint answered in the usual SHIELD fashion.

"Yeah- get your ass down to Coulson's office. Is Romanoff there?" Sighing, Clint turned and spotted his partner rummaging through the closet.

"Yes sir."

"Tell her to get down here too. Debrief in five minutes- I want to know what the hell happened." The phone went dead. Dropping it on the table, Clint took one longing look at his bedroom door, then ran the heel of his hand across his face.

"Nat."

"Don't call me that." She answered instantly. Clint sighed. He was _so_ not in the mood for this.

"Fury wants us in five." Her head snapped up.

"Debrief?"

Clint winced. "For starters." Natasha nodded, face falling into a now familiar mask of indifference. She slipped past him out into the hall, and Clint following close behind.

* * *

Coulson was sitting behind the desk when they entered, twirling his pen between his fingers, brow furrowed in thought. He surveyed them for a second before speaking.

"We need to get some things cleared up before the boss gets here." Clint nodded, and Coulson fixed his eyes on him.

"Barton, I want you to take the fall."

"What?!" Clint spluttered indignantly. It was so unfair! He had just gotten out of a two-week suspension- this was going to get him confined to base _again_. He shuddered at the thought of how much paperwork Coulson would insist he go through.

"Look, Romanoff's on probation. This might be the exact thing the Council's looking for: their reason to terminate her. Until she proves her worth, you need to cover for her."

"You don't have to do that," Natasha said quietly. "I mean, it was mostly Barton's fault-"

"Hey!"

"-but I played a part. I don't need anyone's _protection_." She spat the lastword out as if it left a funny taste in her mouth.

"Romanoff, we look after our own," Coulson said gently. "I cover for Clint when I can, and Fury covers for all of us in front of the Council. It's how we do things. And, like it or not, you're part of the team now." Something flickered behind her eyes for a fraction of a second, but then the stony mask was back in place. She swallowed hard, and then gave a tiny jerk of her head in consent.

Fury chose that minute to sweep into the office. Coulson leapt to his feet, and Natasha and Clint turned to face him. The Director plopped himself down in Coulson's chair, and the silence that followed was unbearable.

"So… Coulson filed a report this morning. And I was a bit… surprised at what I found. Barton?" His sickly sweet voice sent shivers down Clint's spine.

"Yes, sir?" Clint was dismayed at how the words came out in high-pitched squeak.

"What was the purpose of the mission?"

"Neutralize target, retrieve information." He had no idea why Fury was asking them to recite the mission parameters.

"Is this a particularly difficult task for either of you? Did I ask you to do something that can not be accomplished?" Both agents shook their heads.

"THEN WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?" Fury roared.

"There was a tripwire in the safe, sir." Coulson supplied.

"Nothing we didn't expect. Why neither of these clowns saw it is an entirely different question." Clint took a deep breath.

"It was my fault, sir. I didn't spot the wire, and distracted her from finding it herself."

"I don't care whose fault it is. You guys fucked up." When neither agent responded, he continued with a slightly wistful tone.

"I put the two of you together as a punishment, but also because I was impressed with your work in Budapest and the Gauntlet. That was something worth preserving, but you two refuse to work together. I need you to get over whatever issues with pride and self-worth you have." Fury paused, and Clint steeled himself for the impending punishment.

"A month's confinement to base-"

"NO!" Clint and Natasha screeched simultaneously. The last two weeks had been hellish enough. Another month and Clint was sure his brain was going to turn to mush.

"_Yes_, and I want you to be joined at the hip during this time. You two are going to work it out, or Romanoff will be deported and Barton will be given a desk job, skill set and experience be damned!" The two agents lapsed into silence, glaring at Fury sullenly.

"If Coulson and I don't think you're making progress, he will make you two go through some mandatory team-building exercises- hell, he could handcuff you together for a fortnight for all I care. If that doesn't work, we'll just extend the suspension period. We've got all the time in the world, so I suggest you hurry up and get your shit together for your own sake." Clint's mouth hung wide open. He had been expecting punishment, but nothing of this magnitude. This was his own personal _hell_. It could not _possibly_ get any worse.

"You're dismissed." Clint turned to leave, but Fury stopped him.

"Not you, Barton." He reluctantly turned back around. "Considering this was in fact your fault, I might as well kill two birds with one stone. Intel and Human Resources has been filing a ridiculous amount of complaints about your paperwork, and I know for a fact that Coulson redoes most of your work anyways. You are going to show up in Intel tomorrow at 0900 hours for a mandatory lesson on how to _correctly_ complete paperwork, and then you are going to redo every piece that has received a complaint in the last three months. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." Clint sighed, then left the room. Nope, this was definitely worse. His feet carried him toward the shooting range. Sleep and a shower could wait. He needed to unwind with some archery, or his head might just explode from how unjust it all was.

* * *

Clint trudged into his quarters, wearier than ever. He had loosed arrow after arrow at the boards in front of him until the target blurred and his arms ached. For a moment during the workout, his mind had switched off, and he had retreated to that blissful place inside where the only thing that mattered was his next shot. But it was over all too soon, and now he felt more confused than ever.

Setting his bow and quiver down on the table gently, he turned toward the bedroom, ready to forgo the hot shower in favor of a long, long nap. He had his hand on the doorknob when he heard a hiss of pain and muffled curse coming from the bathroom. Frowning, he walked over. A sliver of light under the door was the only indication anyone was inside. After a few seconds of silence, he turned to go to his room. A low groan stopped him in his tracks. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Natasha was hunched over the sink, breathing heavily. Hair damp from a shower, she had one arm extended in front of her and a needle in her other hand. One glance at the antiseptic, bloody paper towels, tweezers, and gauze strewn over the countertop told him exactly why she was making those noises.

Green eyes met blue gray in the mirror, and for a moment they simply stared at each other. "You know there's a medical bay two floors down, right?" Clint asked, fighting to keep his voice devoid of all emotion.

"I don't do hospitals," she replied, not quite meeting his eyes.

"So you give yourself stitches? Jesus, most people have to be sedated for these things. You aren't even using painkillers!" The woman was bat shit insane, but Clint couldn't help admiring her courage.

"I don't need them. It's not like this is the first time I've had to patch myself up." That did it. Clint set his jaw, and moved towards her. She eyed him warily, but made no move to grab the knife she undoubtedly had strapped to her thigh. Motioning for her to sit on the counter, he took the needle out of her hand.

"I can do it myself," Natasha protested, but boosted herself up onto the counter anyways. She had changed into a loose t-shirt and shorts, and that in itself made her look years younger.

"You _can_, but you shouldn't." Clint reached for the first aid kit on the floor. Rummaging around, he produced a bottle of white pills. Shaking two out onto his palm, he offered them to her.

"No." He sighed, frustrated beyond belief at how _stubborn_ she was.

"Why not? Look, these are made for the specific purpose of taking away pain fast without interfering with speed and awareness. You won't be powerless or anything."

"Still…"

"Woman, you can take these yourself or I can force feed you." He snapped.

"I'd like to see you try," she scoffed, but took the proffered pills and swallowed them dry. Clint nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention to her wounds. She had done a good job cleaning them, and Clint could see dozens of tiny cuts on her forearms. Only two were bad enough to warrant stitches, deep, jagged wounds where glass had embedded in her arm. Now that he thought about it, there _had_ been a small heap of glass pieces on one of the towels.

"Was it the window?" he asked softly, threading the needle with precision. She gave a tiny nod, watching his every move.

Tying a knot, he looked at her. "Sure you don't want a doctor to do it?"

"I don't want _you_ to do it." Clint ignored her, positioning the needle at the side of one of the cuts. Looking at her again, he cocked his head to the side, seeking permission. Despite her previous comment, she sighed and nodded her consent.

He inserted the needle carefully, closing up the wound with neat little stitches. She bit her lip, but didn't cry out. Once again admiring her pain tolerance, he started talking to take her mind off of the stitches.

"Why won't you let anyone help you?" he asked, keeping his eyes on her arm.

Silence followed his question, until he thought she wasn't going to answer. But then she did, with four words that cut down to the bone.

"No one's ever tried." She said in barely a whisper. His heart aching, he flicked his eyes up to hers for a moment. Cutting the thread, he doused a piece of gauze with antiseptic, gently swabbing at the closed cut. Bandaging his handiwork, he broke the silence again.

"Well, if you don't mind me saying, you must keep some pretty awful company." She laughed bitterly in response.

"You have no idea."

"Actually, I do." The words slipped out of his mouth of their own accord, and he bit his tongue, but it was too late. She studied him for a few long seconds, with something unreadable in her gaze. Then she turned her head away. Clint finished the stitches in silence, and reached for the gauze.

"Well, next time come find me if you need someone to patch you up." She turned to look at him again as he wrapped the taped the gauze down onto her arm.

"Thank you." The words sounded strange, coming from her. She frowned as she said them, as if she wasn't sure if they were the right ones.

"Don't mention it. It's what partners do." He forced a grin then, but to his surprise something about that statement shook her. The mask descended over her features again, and in an instant she seemed to grow ten years older. The change was terrifying, and suddenly he understood why Coulson and Fury had thought her a monster. The comfortable silence between them had become something else entirely.

"Let me get something straight," she hissed. "I don't _need_ a partner. I don't _want_ a partner. We are going to do the things partners do, but _only_ to get off this godforsaken base. The _second_ you start trusting me, the _minute_ you start relying on someone else to cover your back, you're as good as dead." Her voice broke on the last bit, and for a moment it seemed as if she was no longer talking about the two of them. But then she plowed on, driving each word home with a malicious force.

"I will stick around until I save your ass three times. Once for Germany, once for the Gauntlet, and once for today. After that, I no longer owe you, and I will file for solo missions. It has nothing to do with _trust_, or _duty_, or _friendship_, it has to do with debt. Learn that quickly, or you will end up dead in a gutter. I am not your _partner_. I am not your _confidant_. I am not your _friend_." She spat the words out one after another, each an unexpected slap in the face. The harsh words were nothing compared to the look in her eyes though, as those unforgiving chips of green ice bored into his with a vengeance.

Clint squared his jaw, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him. Stalking into his bedroom, he rolled onto his bed, set the alarm for 9, and stared up at his ceiling, mind swirling with dark thoughts. She was just as dangerous as Fury had warned him she was. She had made it very clear that she would gladly give him up if it meant her life. Clint should want nothing to do with her, but then he remembered the look in her eyes when he had told her he understood about being around the wrong people. And during her speech, there had been a moment when her mask had cracked, and she had looked so unbearably sad and terrified it hurt. There was really only one way to find out which side of Natasha was more prominent.

In the darkness of his room, Clint Barton made a plan.

* * *

**Sorry about the drama- I couldn't resist. So, in case you haven't already guessed, the next few chapters will be all about teambuilding/friendship development. Clint has to win Natasha over before any more missions. I will be taking some prompts, so review with any ideas you have! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! I promised myself I wasn't going to be one of those people who update once every few months, but I'm on break, and after coming back and reading all your awesome reviews I couldn't resist posting this. I've had it written for a while. Thanks for all the support! It means a lot. Just in case you haven't noticed, I've changed the title and summary of this story. It'll now have more of a focus on the development of Clint and Natasha's trust and friendship... and will now include eventual romance ;)**

**Please read and review!**

* * *

Natasha stared up at her ceiling, mind swirling with dark thoughts. Sleep had eluded her, but that wasn't a surprise. Insomnia had plagued her for as long as she could remember. She couldn't stop going over the events of the previous day. Coulson and Barton had both seemed to think she was something fragile that needed help. She wasn't a stupid damsel in distress, as she had made clear to her _partner_ last night. She had been a bit harsher than she had meant to be, but his words had unleashed a flood of bad memories of… before. Funny how Natasha was now cataloguing her life in terms of before and after Barton came and fished her out of the endless cycle of death, destruction and despair. She didn't know how to feel about that.

Sighing, Natasha turned onto her side. A faint blue glow caught her eye, and she squinted at the display on her alarm clock. It was 4 in the morning, as good a time as any to clear out of the apartment before Barton woke up. Rolling off the bed, she quickly got dressed in a long sleeved black shirt and jeans. Slipping her hair into a ponytail, she padded out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. She was halfway to the door when it happened.

"And where do you think you're going?" Without thinking, Natasha dropped to the ground in a roll, hand slipping to her waist, grabbing her knife and hurling it toward the direction of the noise. Ending in a crouch on the ground, she waited for the projectile to connect. Instead, the knife seemed to stop in midair, revolving, light gleaming off one polished side. She sighed, before rising and going over to the door to flip the light switch. Only one person in the world had the ability to catch her knife in midair, and the audacity to twirl it between his fingers while waiting for an answer.

"What do you want, Barton?" She snarled, as fluorescent light illuminated the man sitting at the flimsy plastic kitchen table, a smug look on his face as he turned the knife over in his hands, admiring the design. The pleased look on his face vanished, and he threw the knife over his shoulder, not even waiting for it to embed into her bedroom door. He gestured to the seat opposite him with his other hand. She crossed her arms and glared at him, but walked over nonetheless.

"If you're looking for an apology, you're not getting one."

"Oh, don't you worry about that, sweetheart. Now sit down." She grit her teeth, jerking the chair backwards and throwing herself down in it. She would let the name slide, just this once. Because she really was curious about what he had planned.

Clint proceeded once he had her seated. "Now, let's establish some ground rules first. Could we not attempt to kill each other in the future? Enough people are going to want to do that already." Natasha stared at him, unfazed. He couldn't be serious.

"You're lucky I didn't shoot you. Don't surprise me like that again, and you might just get to keep your head where you want it." He failed to acknowledge the threat.

"So you're the 'shoot first, ask questions later' type?"

"Yes."

"Fair enough. Let's just get started then. You know how we're supposed to get started on teambuilding-"

"Oh god. Is that what this is about?" She asked, rolling her eyes contemptuously.

"Just hear me out. You heard Fury. Coulson gets to cuff us together if he thinks we aren't making progress."

"So lie. Tell him we're making progress."

"I can't. He knows me too well. Plus, I owe it to him not to lie." Natasha snorted at the sentimentality of his statement.

"So you're a bad liar?"

"I lie perfectly fine. Coulson just has supernatural skills of sniffing out liars." She opened her mouth to argue, but he plowed ahead.

"I have a plan."

"Oh, do you?" He ignored the jab.

"It's quite ingenious really. So we each ask each other three questions-"

"Absolutely not." Natasha said.

"Why?" he asked in exasperation.

"We're supposed to get better at working together as a team, not get caught up in each others life stories."

"No, it's nothing like that. We each get three questions. You have the right to refuse to answer any questions, but you have to give three answers. It can be about anything. Just give it a try." She narrowed her eyes and peered at him for a few seconds.

"I get to say no whenever I want?"

"Yes."

She thought about it for a second. "This is still pointless," she muttered, but Barton's face broke into a grin as he realized that was a yes.

"Great! Can I go first?" She cocked her head to one side, but then nodded her head in consent.

"Ok… let's start with something you'll be more comfortable with. Do you sleep with your weapons on you?" Natasha considered the question. It wasn't anything he could use as leverage against her, and it might even serve to get him out of her hair sometimes.

"Yes. My turn." He nodded, and she thought for a second.

"Same question."

"Do I sleep with weapons on me?" Clint asked back, searching for confirmation.

"Yes."

"I do," he said, grinning at her. "My turn. How many weapons do you have on you right now?"

"Conventional ones?"

"Whatever you honestly think you can kill a man with, hotshot."

"Don't call me hotshot."

"Answer my question."

"Six, counting my body as one." He didn't even seem surprised at the answer.

"Same question."

"You can't get a little more creative than that?" She didn't reply, waiting for his answer.

"Two, counting my body as one," he said, smirking at her as he borrowed from her response.

"Based on the way I've seen you use it, I don't think your body counts as one of anything."

"Hey!" he yelped in indignation. Natasha only smirked.

"Fine. Why are you subjecting yourself to this questioning?" Clint asked. Natasha thought for a moment.

"I was curious. Why are you asking me to do this?"

"I wanted to see if you were capable of telling the truth." With that, Clint pushed himself away from the table. "Well, that's three for both of us. See ya." Natasha stared after him, not even registering the click as the front door shut. She had just been played… by Clint Barton. She wasn't sure whether to be angry, exasperated, or just plain confused. One thing was for sure: he was much more complex than she had first thought.

* * *

Clint sat in his customary table in the mess hall, pushing a pile of French fries around on his plate. Per usual, nobody attempted to sit with him, leaving him at a table with 7 empty chairs. Speaking of being shunned, he had not seen head or tail of his partner in the last 24 hours. It seems that their little teambuilding exercise had done nothing but make her hate him even more. Suffice it to say, he was not in a good mood.

"How old are you?" The sound snapped him out of his daze, and several things happened in the next few moments. Clint simultaneously tried to locate the noise and exit the room, which only succeeded in causing him to slide off his chair. Flailing wildly, he grabbed onto the edge of the table, attempting to right his body by tipping the chair in the other direction. He ended up flat on his back on the sticky cafeteria ground, with his chair on top of him. Scrambling back to his feet, he slammed the chair upright and hunched down in it, face beet red from the awkward stares he was no doubt attracting. The cause of his embarrassment, however, was not impressed. Staring at him with a bored look in her green eyes and no expression on her face, she waited for him to answer.

"Christ, Nat, what are you doing here?!"

"Sitting with you. And you really need to work on your escape strategy. Serves you right if you die because you get trapped by your own chair." Clint's blush deepened to a scarlet as bright as his partner's hair.

"Shut up," he muttered, staring adamantly at his potatoes.

"I get three questions. How old are you?" Natasha asked again. He stared at her incredulously. What was she playing at? She had avoided him for an entire day, seemingly pissed, and now she was back asking questions?

"Uh…" he managed to get out, and Natasha shook her head in disgust. Before he could react, she had reached forward and slapped him in the face. "Get your shit together, Barton."

"I'm 24." He ground out, since she was adamant about getting an answer. "Now, why are you here?"

"To ask you questions. It's your turn."

"Uh… ok. Why have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't been avoiding you."

"Bullshit."

"Really, I haven't. You just weren't worth spending my time with." _Ouch._ "My turn. When did you join SHIELD?"

"Five years ago. Is this going to become a daily occurrence?"

"Is that your second question?"

"Yes."

"Maybe, it depends on how the next few days work out. Why are you sitting alone?"

"I'm not. I'm sitting with you."

"Barton."

"Romanoff," he mimicked, smirking at the look of indignation on her face.

"If you want this to be a daily occurrence, I would answer the question."

"Who said I wanted this to be a daily occurrence?"

Natasha simply smirked, leaning forward slowly. Clint froze in place, watching, as her face got nearer and nearer. She stopped when her lips were mere millimeters from the shell of his ear. He took a deep breath to steady himself- big mistake. She smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and something distinctly spicy. Clint found himself gritting his teeth and gripping the table, sternly telling himself to calm the fuck down because she was only seventeen for Christ's sake.

"You're a terrible liar, Barton. A simply awful liar." She whispered, before pulling away, smirk plastered back over those features. Clint shook his head wryly, laughing bitterly. So that was her idea of revenge for yesterday.

"Fine. It's because I don't have any friends." Natasha blinked at the forthrightness of his statement.

"What?"

"You heard me," Clint replied levelly. It wasn't a question. She furrowed her brow, staring at a spot on the table. Something clenched in Clint's stomach. He knew it was ridiculous, considering all she had done over the last few minutes was embarrass him and wreck what sense of human dignity he had left, but he wouldn't be able to stand it if she left.

"They're idiots." She said softly. Clint looked up at her, shocked.

"What?"

"You heard me," she replied, mimicking him in an attempt to mask the sincerity of her previous statement. Clint didn't buy it for a second. "I just meant… I would have thought they have better things to do than be jealous at people who are better than they are. I guess some things don't change, no matter where you are." She said quietly, staring around the cafeteria. Clint swallowed hard, a sudden lump in his throat.

"But you're an idiot too," she muttered, looking back at him. Clint couldn't help but laugh.

"I am?"

"Yes. I'm not you're friend, but I'm sitting with you anyways." Clint grinned at her, despite the fact that the words were meant to hurt. There was no way he was going to let the moment of sincerity slide.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." She stuck her tongue out at him, and the move was so _juvenile_ that he couldn't help but double up in laughter. When the giggles subsided, he looked up to find her looking at him expectantly.

"Right. I've still got one. Let's see… ah. Do you ever eat?" Clint asked, genuinely curious. Before today, he had never seen her set foot in the mess hall. Natasha snorted and rolled her eyes.

"I'm not even going to grace that one with a response."

"So is that a yes or no?" Natasha stared at him for a second, then in a flash she had reached across the table, snagged one of his fries, and popped it into her mouth. Chewing, she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Hypocrite." He muttered.

"What?"

"Whatever happened to 'don't trust anyone'? How did you know that wasn't poisoned?"

"You were prepared to eat that yourself. Plus, if I keeled over here, you'd be confined to base forever. And you don't get anymore questions." To prove her statement, she ate another fry, staring at him in defiance. He made a noise of indignation, and made a show of shielding his food from her, but couldn't keep the grin off his face. She swallowed, and then leaned forward seriously.

"But still. I'm not your friend."

"I know." He was half expecting her to leave any minute now that she had gotten what she had wanted.

She didn't.

And when Clint walked out of his bedroom the next morning to find her lying on the couch reading one of those ridiculously long Russian novels, waiting to bombard him with still more questions, he couldn't stop himself from smiling.

* * *

**So... what did you think? Let me know! See you at the end of May... hopefully :P**

**Does anyone want to beta this? **


	6. Chapter 6

**Longest chapter yet, because I found a reason to delve into their pasts :) This one was fun to write. Let me know what you think when you're done! Featuring a little sparring at the end and an unexpected confession...**

**A big thank you to VioletK for proofreading this!**

* * *

_It's the lack of noise that wakes him. Everyone in the city has to deal with falling asleep to the constant sirens, shouts, and gunfire from the army-training compound. In fact, the concept of a still night is now foreign to him. He furrows his brow- something is wrong. Sitting up straighter against the construction crane, he looks out over the decrepit buildings. It looks just like it does all other nights, but the sense of unrest won't leave him, and his gut feeling had saved him many times in the past. He is reaching for his night vision goggles when all hell breaks loose._

_The floodlights snap on, throwing the city square into sharp relief. If he had had the goggles on, blindness would be a very likely possibility. Trucks from the base speed into the square, a flood of privates and specialists flowing out from the back doors. Sirens begin to wail, and the shouts of sergeants echo across the cobblestones. Everywhere, men in uniform are kicking down doors, and soon the terrified wails of the young and innocent are added to the racket. He watches the scene for a moment, and then fumbles for his radio._

_"This is Specialist Barton, ID 3340713, watchman on duty in sector 10D. Over."_

_"Copy Specialist. Over."_

_"There's some sort of commotion in the square. Our guys are causing a real mess. Over."_

_"Stay put, Specialist. It's just a drill. If you see any suspicious activity from the locals, report immediately. Over and out." Clint drops the radio and grabs his rifle instead, staring through the scope. Some of the soldiers have reappeared in the square, dragging the occupants of the buildings out with them. Women scream, clutching at their children's hands as they are ripped from their husbands and fathers. The soldiers pistol-whip some of the men into submission, dragging the women and children into the center of the square. At the command of the sergeant major, a squadron forms ranks around them. Clint watches in horror, reaching for his radio again, unable to keep the panic out of his voice._

_"This is Specialist Barton, and there is a firing squad forming in the square. I repeat: this is not a drill. Over."_

_"Specialist, stay put."_

_"Oh god-"_

_A new voice speaks on the other end. "Specialist, this is Major Locke. Stay put. That is an order. This doesn't concern you. Over and out." The radio clicks off with a note of finality. The squad has finished forming up below, cutting the women and children of the district off from the men. The sergeant raises a hand, and Clint doesn't even have time to scream before they open fire._

Clint bolted upright in bed, gasping for air and soaked in sweat. Head snapping wildly from side to side, he blinked the images from behind his eyes, sagging back onto the bed once he confirmed that he was in fact in his room at SHIELD, and not back at that shithole of a base in Iraq.

Clint sighed in relief, and thanked a god he didn't believe in that he had woken before he got to the actual genocide. But even if he had been spared the worst of the nightmare, there was still not a shot in hell he was going to be able to fall back asleep. Slipping a shirt on, he padded out to the common area. To his surprise, the lights were already on. Natasha sat on the couch, hair damp and knees drawn up to her chest, staring blankly at a spot of wall opposite her. Hearing the door shut, she turned to face him, looking at him with hollow, haunted eyes. She had never looked so vulnerable. Clint wanted nothing more than to go over and comfort her, but decided against it. He had just gotten her to start talking to him for real a week ago, and wasn't prepared to risk that for the world. Fortunately, he had a better idea.

_..._

_She stands in a small, sparsely furnished room. A threadbare rug covers the scratched and flaking floorboards, and a single candle illuminates the room. From next door, she can hear a man's soft snores and a child whimpering in its sleep. Lulled by the quiet, cozy feel of the house, she allows her mind to wander. A creak snaps her out of her daydreams, and she watches in horror as the latch on the window snaps, and a pane of glass slips forward. It lands with a thud on the table, but not before knocking the candleholder set on the desk before it over._

_The candle slips onto its side, wax pooling on the soft old wood. She longs to step forward and snatch the candle up, to beat out the flames, to do_anything_, but she is rooted on the spot. Watching helplessly as the greedy tongues of flame lick across the surface of the table, creeping ever closer to the pipe on the wall, Natasha opens her mouth to scream, but seems incapable of producing sound as well. Horror twists her heart as the flames spread relentlessly, encasing the pipe. For several seconds, nothing happens, but then the old valves can take no more. With a fearsome groan, the metal bursts apart and flames gush out, spraying burning shrapnel across the room. The floor, the walls, the furniture- everything is washed in flame. Squeezing her eyes shut from the rush of heat that accompanies the fire, she hears rather than sees the family wake. A woman screams, babbling in Russian, and soon her husband's voice joins hers. Too slow, Natasha thinks, with a heavy certainty weighing her down. She wants to yell at them to hurry, to pull them out of the house herself, but her body will not obey her._

_Finally, the woman emerges carrying a toddler in her arms. The child gurgles happily, and doesn't seem to realize what is happening. With a shock, Natasha notices the flame red color of the girl's hair, and seeing the same color on her mother's head, realized with horror that she is watching her house go down in flames. Her thoughts are pushed to the side as a man emerges as well. The room is now filled with thick smoke, and she cannot make out his features. The woman shouts, and he begins to blindly grope his way over to her. Too slow. With an awful creak, a beam of wood falls, crashing down to bar the door. With a gruesome, haunting scream, Natasha instinctively knows it had pinned her mother too._

_The man-her __father__- seems to know too, as he cries out and rushes forward. The screams die out, and the man's wails take its place. The child-__her __- finally catches on, and begins to squall. The man scoops her up, and tries unsuccessfully to step over the beam. Turning his head, he spots the window. Ramming the desk aside, he tries to jump up and squeeze through the window to his salvation, but it is too small for any full-grown man. He seems to come to the same conclusion, and sags to the floor, cradling the child in his arms. Caressing her cheek, he presses a kiss to her forehead, and then struggles to his feet. Taking one last longing look at his daughter, he tosses her outside, careful to clear the burning house but not to hit the road. As soon as he sees his child hit the sidewalk, the man collapses to the ground. The rest of the roof comes down -_

Natasha cracked her head against the bedside table, wrenching herself awake. Breathing hard, she tried desperately to kick the blankets off her, which now seemed to wrap her legs in a vise. Sobbing with frustration, she grabbed her knife and slashed through them, ripping the sheets away and throwing them to the ground. Leaping out of bed, she raced to the bathroom, stripping down and sitting under the freezing jets of water until she had calmed down and locked her dream away in that place deep inside. There was no way that was a memory anyways. She had been too young to have any recollection of the fire.

After redressing, she flopped down on the couch, drowning in thoughts of her past. Hearing a door click shut behind her, she turned to face Barton. Based on the sheen of sweat on his skin and the feverish look in his eyes, he was up for the same reason. They simply stared at each other for a minute, before Barton set his jaw and walked over to a case against the wall, grabbing a roll of gauze from within.

"You coming?" Barton asked, wrapping the tape around his knuckles. She pretended not to see how bad his hands were shaking and smirked at him, praying that he didn't notice the involuntary twitch the action caused.

"If you're sure you're up for it." He offered her an exaggeratedly wounded look, and began to walk to the door. That's when she noticed.

"Barton." It's a testament to how far they've come when he turns around immediately.

"Um…" unsure of how to proceed, she simply inclined her head downward. Barton looked down, confused, and then blushed when he realized what she was hinting at.

"Right. Just give me a second," he mumbled, backing up toward his bedroom door, cursing himself for not realizing he was only wearing boxer shorts. And watching him retreat to his room in search of pants, Natasha realized she hadn't thought about the dream in a full minute.

Maybe this arrangement was a good idea after all.

* * *

SHIELD's main training room was customarily bursting to the seams with overconfident junior agents going round and round on the mats and disdainful senior ones watching from a distance. At this late hour, it was blissfully empty. Upon entering the room, Natasha immediately walked over to a mat, dropping gracefully onto her knees and started stretching with smooth precise motions. She was clearly in her element. Clint, on the other hand, stared at the boxing rings and punching bags spread evenly around the room. He would pick the shooting range over this any day.

"Barton, get your ass over here," Natasha commanded. He picked his way across the room, sitting down next to her. She now had her legs in an intricate pretzel twist, and her voice was muffled by her mouth's dangerous proximity to her foot. Clint would laugh, but she would probably slit his throat without a second thought.

"Stretch, or you're going to pull something once I get started on you," Natasha said, smirking. He was seriously unsure whether this was a good idea now, but did some basic stretches nonetheless, watching in disbelief as she contorted her body in inhuman ways.

After a few minutes of this, she rose to her feet. Clint followed suit gratefully. He was in peak human conditioning, but he had to have looked like a clumsy ox next to her. A small smile on her face, she sauntered to the center of the mat. Balancing on the balls of her feet, she turned to face him. "Whenever you're ready," she said, a bored look on her face.

Clint bit his lip, trying to find the best opening. But whom was he kidding? If he managed to surprise the Black Widow, he'd eat his hat. With a grunt, he charged her. Natasha didn't even blink. When he was about four feet away, she took a small step forward, and in a flash had landed a well-placed crescent kick to his jaw. Clint's knees gave for a second upon impact. Natasha shoved insistently with her foot, tumbling to the ground with him. Well, Clint tumbled- Natasha landed on her side with her leg braced across his chest. She was on him in a second, fingers lightly pinching a pulse point on his neck. Leaning in close, she smirked. "Dead," she whispered, then rolled off him and got to her feet in one smooth motion. Clint, lightly touching his jaw, stumbled upright as well. That was going to leave one hell of a bruise in the morning.

The next half hour passed in a similar fashion, with each round lasting no more than 20 seconds. Clint was now sporting a collection of bruises on his shoulders, hips, and ankles, to match the one on his jaw. Getting wearily to his feet, he signaled to Natasha.

"Alright, that's enough. There's no way to breach your defense. Go ahead and attack _me_. Hit me with everything you've got." Natasha's eyebrows shot up. Clint paused and winced.

"Alright. Attack without causing me serious injury." Natasha cocked her head to the side, considering him.

"Hmmm… let's start with something simple," she taunted, stretching her arms lazily above her head. Before he had time to blink, she had turned and charged him. Clint swung his arm out in a punch when she was two feet away, but hit empty air. Confused, he swung his head wildly from side to side. Somehow, she had ended up behind him, and she let him know with a teasing jab from her knee to the small of his back. Clint turned around to face her, but she had already gotten down on one knee. Launching forward off her back leg, she shot her shoulder toward his leg, simultaneously reaching out to grab his Achilles tendon. In an instant, she had both pushed and pulled his leg. Clint flailed wildly, but wasn't able to stop from crashing down onto the ground- again. As soon as he hit the mat, she climbed his body, gaining control before he could recover.

Smoothing her hands over his throat, she smiled predatorily. "You're dead."

Clint had had enough. Canting his hips upward and throwing himself to the left, he grabbed her forearms and forced her to release his throat. Quickly, he spun her to rest below him, pinning her arms down with his hands and holding those dangerous thighs apart with his calves. She growled low in her throat, struggling.

Flushed with victory, Clint grinned down at her. "You might want to check to make sure of that next time, sweetheart. Plus, there are worse ways to die than with you on top of me." In an instant, her expression changed. All the fight went out of her, and she turned her face to the side, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Hey," Clint said in surprise, cursing himself for being so tactless. He felt sick for parading that in front of her face. Raising one hand, he gripped her chin gently. "Hey, look at me. I'm sor-"

Next thing he knew, he had his face pressed into the Styrofoam of the mat, his partner sitting on his back. An elbow dug into the center of his back, and she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "I can't tell you how many times I've pulled that trick. And for some reason, it works. Every. Single. Time. Don't underestimate your opponent, Barton." With that, she released him. Clint sat up, rubbing his spine.

"Gotcha," he muttered. Should've known something like that wouldn't faze her. "Crazy woman."

"Better than a dead man," she shot back.

Clearing his throat in discomfort, he hastily changed the subject. "What was that move you pulled?"

"I don't know what it's called. It's one of the first ones I learned."

"Will you teach it to me?"

"No." Clint frowned, but didn't push it. If she wasn't willing to give up her secrets, that was fine with him.

"But… did you mean it? What you said before?" Natasha asked brazenly, staring at him.

"Of course." She looked shocked, and he could never resist messing with her.

"Wouldn't you agree that there are worse ways to die?" Natasha face palmed, shaking her head.

"No. Have you ever thought about me in… _that_ way?" At least this time she had the courtesy to look embarrassed.

"Hell no, I'm not answering that," Clint replied, shocked.

"Come on! I get three questions."

"That I can refuse to answer."

"Barton, if you don't answer I'm going to know that's a yes," Natasha said dryly, crossing her arms.

"Alright, I have. I am a red blooded male, for fuck's sake. And the moves you pull to get your way… Christ, you would make _Coulson_ blow a gasket." Natasha just stared at him, mouth hanging open.

"But I would never act on it." Clint added, staring back at her adamantly. He had to make sure that she understood that. It had an unintended effect, though.

"Oh God, if this is about my age again I will fucking _kill_ you," Natasha snarled.

"No, that's not it." She looked at him incredulously. "Ok… that's partly it. But I just _couldn't_. You don't need that," Clint finished awkwardly. The silence seemed to grow between them as she continued to stare at him, flabbergasted. "Why the hell is that so hard to believe?" Clint asked in complete exasperation.

"Oh, it's not that. I'm just trying to figure something out," she said, brow furrowed. "What do you mean, _never_?" Clint grinned.

"That upset you sweetheart? I suppose I might reconsider…" Natasha flinched and stumbled back so fast that he had to laugh. Her eyes narrowed when she figured out he was just kidding.

"Oh, don't worry Barton. You aren't my type anyways." Now it was his turn to stare at her openmouthed.

"What the hell do you mean, _not your type_? When the hell have you had time to develop a _type_?" he shouted at her in indignation. She only smirked at him.

"That's for me to know, and you to never find out." She got to her feet, walking away.

"Don't you dare leave," Clint growled.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. Get your ass off the ground."

"Yes, ma'am," he teased, waggling his eyebrows. She slammed her hand against her face. "Don't worry, I'm just kidding. But-"

"Barton, shut up," she commanded through gritted teeth. He opened his mouth to argue, but she rushed on. "Look, do you want to end up back on the ground or do you want to learn how to counter that takedown?" He promptly shut his mouth, nodding enthusiastically. Natasha rolled her eyes, but began giving him pointers nonetheless.

"You can't use this because it's only effective with smaller and faster people executing it. It just won't work with someone as bulky as you…"

Over the next ten minutes, Clint learned how to keep his weight back, recover quickly, maintain his center of gravity, and fall on top of an opponent without breaking the bones of either party. When he finally managed to topple on top of her the right way and keep her pinned, he grinned and pumped his fist in the air. Natasha only rolled her eyes and told him he was a totally inept and sentimental fool.

He knew it was her way of saying thank you.

* * *

**Reviews make me ridiculously happy. You should write one :) If any of you have ideas for things that could take place during this month of confinement that you want me to write about, please let me know!**


	7. Chapter 7

**So some of you requested a chapter update. Sorry it took so long, but I actually rewrote it and restructured the story... I'll explain at the end. **

**Since it's been a while, here's a little recap of the entire story: Clint and Natasha were not getting along and messed up bad on a mission. Fury got mad and confined them to base. They have slowly gotten to know each other and are becoming friends. And that's pretty much it... R&R!**

* * *

**Day 29**

Clint was going to miss being on probation. The realization of that hit him in the sparring ring two days ago… right before Natasha did. That thought had gotten him a giant yellow-green bruise on his abdomen, and was still wrecking havoc on his conscience.

But the more Clint thought about it, it was true. Before, he had counted the minutes until he would be released from base. Now, the time seemed to fly by. Once Natasha had warmed up to him just a bit, he had been quite busy. Whereas he had practically lived at the shooting range whenever he was on base before Ukraine, he was now hard-pressed to find the time to go practice. After a few sparring sessions, Clint had noticed a remarkable change in his hand-to-hand abilities. To reciprocate, he managed to lead Natasha to the pool and coax her into letting him teach her how to swim. He had no idea what dam that would burst. When Natasha put her mind to learning something, she attacked it with a single-minded determination. Two days after his attempts to drag her into the pool, he wasn't able to pull her out if he tried. With all the lessons and paperwork Fury had assigned to keep him busy, he hadn't noticed they would be up for potential field duty again until his epiphany in the ring.

Walking aimlessly through the halls of SHIELD, he fought with his thoughts. He desperately wanted to thank her. Clearing away the boredom had definitely saved his sanity. The question was how. Any verbal expression of his appreciation would be batted aside in an instant. If he tried to give her a gift, she might just castrate him if he chose wrong. Plus, he was secretly a bit scared she might fly off into another rant.

Noticing the time, he turned into the mess hall, piling food on a tray. He was turning to go when the freezer caught his eye. Then it hit him. Of course! How could he have missed that…

"What are you gaping at, Barton?" A voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned, and was met with a pair of deep green eyes. He really couldn't tell whether she was amused or exasperated, but then again no one could. The Black Widow was a master at keeping her emotions in check, and most of the time Natasha did too.

"Uh… nothing." Clint stuttered, feeling a bit dumb. She just rolled her eyes, grabbing a slice of pizza with one hand and his arm with the other.

"Come on, birdbrain. People are starting to stare." Nothing new there. They took a seat at the customary table, and Clint couldn't stop grinning every time he looked at her going through the usual examination of her food.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said, never lifting her eyes from the pepperoni slices.

"Nothing," Clint replied absently, already making yet another plan.

* * *

_**A day later…**_

Natasha stomped down the hall back to her quarters, fuming. Her frustration clearly showed on her face, since several agents scrambled to out of her way. She had just spent twenty minutes waiting for her bastard of a partner to get his ass down to the training room. If he couldn't be bothered to show up, he might as well have the decency to let her know. She would make sure he learned that within the next hour. Dreaming up creative ways of breaking her partner's will almost caused her to walk right past him.

"Hey, Nat," he said cheerfully. She skidded to a stop, eyes narrowing to slits.

"You _jackass_. I am not your coach. I do not get paid to help you salvage your pathetic fighting skills. The next time you pull that, I am going to-"

"Yeah, I'm sure you have some very colorful threats to deliver, but could you just step inside for a second?" Barton asked in a bored tone, picking at his cuticles.

"I'll tell you where I'm going to step, you son of a-" Natasha all but screamed. Barton sighed dramatically, then opened the door and yanked her through.

"DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?" she yelled, but trailed off when she noticed what he had done to the room.

The chairs had been pushed away from the cheap plastic kitchen table, whose surface was absolutely covered with cartons of all shapes and sizes, all of which appeared to contain… ice cream.

"Look, I know you like this stuff, but this is a bit much…" Natasha murmured, completely dumbstruck. Clint face palmed.

"Just think about it. I'm sure you can figure it out." Natasha furrowed her brow, glancing across the table doubtfully. And then it clicked.

A week ago, they had been asking the customary three questions. The mess had been serving ice cream, and when she teased him about the enthusiasm with which he attacked the food, he shrugged it off and asked what her favorite flavor was. Natasha had been forced to admit she had never tried any. It had simply never came up before. Was this…

She looked at him questioningly. "Is this all because of that question?"

"Yep. Well… kind of. We also have something to celebrate."

"What?" Natasha asked, slightly perplexed.

"Today's July 12th," he said, like the date was supposed to mean something. After a moment, he sighed. "Ok, we're at the end of the mandatory confinement to base period. And… it's been exactly 6 months since we met at Germany." Natasha's eyebrows shot up.

"That's incredibly morbid."

"Yeah, I know. But, uh, I guess I'm just… I'm just glad I didn't kill you," Barton whispered, looking at her with a humiliated look on his face. Natasha swallowed hard. Something ached deep inside, and she was surprisingly touched. Nobody had ever done anything like this for her before.

Like hell she was going to tell him that.

"Sentimental bastard," she said softly, and he grinned back. The uncomfortable weight in the air dissipated instantly.

"Shut up. You love it. You didn't even try to kill me. I succeeded, so we are going to eat some ice cream," he explained, walking across the room and dragging the chairs back to the table.

Natasha walked over and picked up a small round carton with "Ben and Jerry's" printed on the side. Turning it in her hands, she frowned.

"Uh, Clint…"

"Yep?"

"It looks different from when you were eating it."

"What?" he took the tin from her hands, and then groaned. "Oh god, I'm such an idiot."

"Can't argue with you there," Natasha couldn't help adding.

"Hey! It's just that most of this melted. Don't worry, it's still edible." She looked at him doubtfully, and he rolled his eyes and tipped his head back, sending a stream of thick brown liquid into his mouth.

"See? Tastes like chocolate soup." Natasha crinkled her nose in disgust. "Come on Romanoff. Don't go all girly on me," he teased.

Natasha reacted exactly as expected. Grabbing the carton from his hand, she tipped it back, grimacing after a sip. "Uh, that's disgusting."

"Too sweet?" Barton asked. She nodded, and he turned to search through the collection on the kitchen counter. "Oh, try this one. It's another brand, and still kind of solid…"

Over the next twenty minutes, they worked through the stack of ice cream, eating, drinking, and debating whatever Barton saw fit to share. "I like this one," Natasha said, holding up a white and green carton.

Clint took it from her. "Mint chocolate chip. Figures. You gonna finish this?" he asked. She shook her head, and he knocked it back. When he looked at her again, he had a greenish splotch at the end of his nose.

"Um, you have a little something there," Natasha prompted, gesturing at his nose. Wiping it away with the back of his hand, he looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eye. Picking up another carton, he swiped a finger in the dark liquid and smeared it across one pale cheek. She gaped at him, too surprised to move away. Then her eyes narrowed, and she grabbed the box nearest her. "Oh, you're asking for it…"

* * *

Coulson walked briskly down SHIELD's pristine hallways, consulting several video clips on his tablet and shuffling through a stack of papers as he moved. He had received the call from Fury ten minutes ago, and had immediately moved to carry out orders. As much as his boss griped about Barton's immaturity and lack of cooperation skills, he wasn't stupid enough to overlook the kid's talents. He may have threatened infinite confinement to base, but the first chance he got those two would be back in the field. And Coulson was being sent to evaluate their progress.

Stopping in front of a metal door identical to all the others along the hallway, Coulson raised his hand to knock when he heard a crash. Freezing, he heard a loud yelp and then what sounded suspiciously like a cackle. Cautiously, Coulson reached down to grab his gun. You could never be too careful with these two. In a flash, he had opened the door and stepped inside, brandishing his weapon like a lunatic. What he saw next was nothing anyone could have foreseen.

Barton was running around the room like a headless chicken, waving a spoon in the air. His clothes were completely covered with different splotches of sticky liquid, and his hair had been turned three shades darker with what appeared to be tar. Perched on his shoulders was _Romanoff_, literally _growling_ at him. She had a spoon in one hand and a carton of ice cream in the other, and was in the process spooning ice cream down the back of his shirt. Another scoop went down and Barton let loose a stream of obscenities. "Whose laughing now?" she cackled, spoon raised to initiate another attack.

Coulson's gun slipped out of his slack hand and hit the floor. At the sound, both heads swung around to face him. After a few seconds, Natasha let go of Barton's neck and climbed back onto the ground. Barton cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to speak when Coulson heard the snort. Turning around, he spotted Romanoff standing in the corner, face beet red with cheeks puffed out. Soon, another snort followed the first, along with a muffled snicker. He frowned at her in confusion, and that did it. Guffawing and shaking with mirth, she fell back against the wall, convulsing. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, was _laughing_.

Coulson looked at Barton in alarm, not sure whether he should be amused or terrified. However, his charge was looking just as shell shocked as he felt.

After a few more long moments, Romanoff finally noticed them watching her. Hiccupping slightly, she backed into her room and shut the door. There, the muffled shrieks continued to assault their ears.

Coulson coughed uncomfortably, picked up his gun, and nodded at Barton before getting the hell out of there. What had he unleashed? Over the years, he had gotten Barton out of many uncomfortably sticky situations, but nothing of this magnitude. How would he be able to deal with _both_ of them?

On the upside, they were no longer at each other's throats. The ice cream battle had had an element of playfulness to it. Somehow Barton had penetrated her shell.

Coulson turned the corner, and then the irony of it hit him. Chuckling to himself, he reached for his phone to call Fury. They were more then ready for a 2nd try, and in the end all it had taken was a little ice cream to make it better.

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**Hope you enjoyed it, and now I have something to confess. The idea for this chapter was borrowed from the story First Love, Last Romance by eiluned on An Archive of Our Own. This section prompted me to write this, because I thought it would be a good way to wrap up this part of the story: "**(He'd introduced her to ice cream in New York a couple of months after she'd defected. He had been appalled that she'd never had good ice cream when she was a kid, because in his opinion, every kid deserves good ice cream.)"

**So it turns out I can't write too much fluff at one point without getting bored, so I'm ending the probationary period. After the next chapter, I'll probably fast forward a few years, otherwise it'll get extremely long. Also... I'm sorry about Coulson! He's been so misrepresented so far in this! I promise he'll have a better role in section 2.**

**Please review and let me know what you think! Any guesses for what will be happening next ;)?**


	8. Chapter 8

So... I'm back for good! We went to nationals... and lost. The end result was 6-4, so we were knocked out before we got to the quarter finals. But it was pretty amazing to see some of the other teams play- Bellermine and LASA really kicked ass. And I am soooo proud of our entire team.

This chapter is horribly inadequate after such a long break, but it really is just something to tide you guys over until I get back in the swing of things. So, an apology in advance, I guess.

Thanks for sticking with me!

* * *

After the ice-cream incident, which came to be known in SHIELD history as the first of many true icebreakers between SHIELD's deadliest duo (well, in Coulson's mind anyway), Clint and Natasha were standing in a briefing room within an hour of Coulson walking in on them.

This time, the mission was regional, so Fury was obviously still cautious about their abilities to behave professionally. It was laughably simple- an investigation into a professor of a local college who may or may not be slipping rohypnol, or the date rape drug, to a few of his female students. With Natasha posing as an innocent college freshman, she would be an irresistible target.

Except for the new setting, aliases (Clint would play the part of Natasha's big brother), and the fact that they were in the field, their relationship was basically the same as it had been during the probationary period. Their work had definitely improved from its sorry state of Ukraine, though. Except for a few minor slipups about their roles, they made the transition incredibly smoothly. All it took was a few coy glances from Natasha, and the professor was hooked. They had the case wrapped up within a week.

Fury reflected on their success as the pair stood in front of his desk a few days ahead of the estimated mission deadline. They had done well, and if the smug looks they were giving each other were anything to go by, they clearly knew it. Well then. "Good job," Fury said gruffly, and then busied himself shuffling papers until they left the room. As soon as the door shut however, he allowed himself a small smile and pumped his fist in the air. His reputation was now safe- his instincts had been correct. And now that Romanoff and Barton had proven themselves, he could afford to send them on more difficult missions… and he could look into that promotion with Coulson if they continued to perform (for Barton, repromotion- for the 6th time).

The council could suck it.

**End of part 1**

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So, in case you were wondering, this story is going to be divided into three parts. You will find out the technicalities of part 2 shortly ;)

Please let me know what you thought about part 1!


	9. Chapter 9

**I am so so sorry this took so long! But I had a hellish amount of catchup work and then exams... Anyways, hope you enjoy this one! In light of the fact that I seem to be doing an absolutely fantastic job of neglecting this story, I'm taking it from 3 parts from two... Skipping right to the good stuff ;) Also, a big thank you to my beta VioletK is due- without her this chapter would be very different.**

**Read and review!**

* * *

Clint and Natasha stumbled into their apartment. Following the post-mission routine they had developed long ago, Clint all but fell into a chair at the plastic kitchen table, absently disassembling his and Natasha's weapons and cleaning them (he had always considered the fact that she was now letting him touch her guns the ultimate sign of trust). Natasha was on the more domestic end of things this week- sorting clothes, sending the especially nasty items down the laundry chute. They worked in easy silence, moving in tandem, practically too tired to speak.

When the hot water switch flipped back, Natasha backed out of the room to the bathroom, throwing him a glare in case he dared race her for the showers. Clint shook his head, chuckling, and then moving back to the heap of weaponry on the table. He finished with Natasha's precious Glocks, and turned reverently to his bow. He always spent a little extra time oiling it and checking the bowstring for any wear and tear.

In fact, he was so wrapped up in what he was doing that the shrill ring of his cellphone failed to percolate the fatigue-addled haze clouding his brain. Scrubbing a hand vigorously across his face, he reached over and picked it up. "Barton."

"Yea… it's Coulson." Clint grimaced at the apologetic tone lacing his handler's words. This could only mean one thing.

"Phil, I haven't slept in about forty hours- that's a bit extreme even for me. Tash is dead on her feet, or passed out in the shower. We got back literally fifteen minutes ago. Are you seriously suggesting you already have something lined up?"

"In my defense, it seriously wasn't my idea. But it's really important- I wouldn't be calling if it weren't. After this, I'll file a request for leave for you. Alright?"

"Yeah," Clint sighed.

"Good. I'll brief you on the plane. The whole thing shouldn't take more than two days. Now, do you want to tell Romanoff, or should I?"

"What makes you so sure she's with me?" Clint replied stubbornly.

"Please," Coulson scoffed, his voice losing a bit of its urgency. "You two live together- now by choice. If you spent a second more with her, we would stop referring to you as two separate individuals." Clint smirked and snuck a glance at the bathroom door. "And… you mentioned she was taking a shower."

"Right… I can tell her."

"Great. I expect you to be on the helipad in half an hour."

"Copy that," Clint mocked, and flipped the phone shut. Sighing, he walked over to the bathroom. The door opened before he could knock, revealing Natasha… wrapped only in a towel.

"Uhh…" Clint cursed himself for sounding like such a total moron. But he had completely forgotten what he was about to say. Wracking his brain desperately, he fixed his eyes on the doorframe above her head. He was most certainly not thinking about the fact that she had absolutely no clothes on other than the towel. Or how he found her bare feet strangely sexy. Oh god, he wasn't salivating or anything… right? AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-

"Clint." Natasha said, snapping him out of what was certainly about to escalate into a full-blown panic attack. He looked down at her, and she cocked an eyebrow in question.

"Right. Coulson wants us on a plane in thirty minutes." Her shoulders sagged at this, and she leaned back against the doorframe, not even bothering to hide her exhaustion. Clint felt a sharp wave of concern flood through him. "Come here." She leaned back upright, and Clint wrapped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. He wasn't really sure which one of them sat first, but suddenly they were both leaning against the wall, and Natasha had tucked her head onto his shoulder, damp hair brushing the side of his neck. He sighed, trying to ignore how perfectly her head seemed to fit there and the scent of her hair.

"Fury?" Natasha mumbled against his collarbone, causing Clint to suppress a shiver.

"Coulson." She nodded dejectedly, and Clint jumped in with fake cheer. "Hey, it won't be so bad. Coulson says this one will be quick, and then he'll petition Fury into giving us a break."

"I know," she said quietly. "But I'm just so… tired." They both knew she wasn't just referring to the lack of sleep. Clint pressed a light kiss to the top of her head, and then they just sat for a few minutes. Finally, Natasha sighed and moved to get up. "We'd better get our stuff together." Clint couldn't muster the energy to get up with sheer force of will, and remained sagging against the wall. A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. "Get up and help me pack, or I'll tell Coulson it was _you _who spilled apple juice on his Captain America trading cards." He scrambled up and made a beeline for her bags, not failing to notice her wry chuckle as she followed him at a more normal pace. _There_ was the Tasha he knew.

It was time for a mission. Whatever this was could wait.

* * *

It took exactly 37 minutes for the operation to blow up in their faces.

Clint let arrow upon arrow fly at the seemingly endless enemy ranks. After landing in a remote patch of rainforest in East Brazil, he and Natasha had hacked their way through the shrubbery, following Coulson's directions. His very, _very _bad directions. After a half hour's hike, they arrived at the military facility they were targeting. However, instead of emerging at the unguarded Southwest entrance, they had literally shown up at the evil madman's front door. The flaming red hair of his partner being their own permanent distress beacon, more than a hundred guards had swarmed out of the gates within seconds. They had been stuck in this shitstorm ever since.

Swearing under his breath, Clint brought another man down. He didn't dare use one of his explosive tips. A carefully placed shot against one of the support columns would take out at least half of the guards in one fell swoop, since the idiots had lined up against the wall- a move meant to intimidate, but not very effective. But the detonation might compromise their mission as well.

His hands moving automatically, he shot a glance at Natasha. She was firing rounds as rapidly as he was, spacing the shots at intervals so that one of them was always engaging the targets. One look at the used clips pooling at her feet showed that this couldn't last much longer. Natasha looked over right then, eyeing his quiver, and apparently came to the same conclusion. Raising one hand to her ear, she switched her comm on.

"Coulson, this is Black Widow requesting immediate evac."

"Copy that. What's the problem?"

"YOU, you bastard!" Clint yelled, abandoning all pretense of professionalism. "We literally walked right up to the front gate! Next time give us a god damn GPS."

"GPS's won't show the-"

"I know. Make us a map or something. Just try not to colossally screw us over-"

"What's going on?" Coulson repeated sharply.

"All the guards in the facility are about to start shooting at us. ETA?"

"Twenty minutes." Clint swore under his breath. They were out of solutions. "Coulson, we have to abort-"

"No." Natasha interjected. "I'm going in."

"What? No!" He and Coulson chimed in unison.

"Clint, it's the only way we get out of here alive. I go in, get the data, then you can blow the place to kingdom come."

"But-"

"Just cover me," she snapped. Clint shut up, and Natasha gathered her supplies, leaving three of her explosive chips and a gun at his feet. "If I'm not out in 5 minutes, or whenever you run out of arrows, blow the place anyway and run." The calm expression on her face allowed no argument, and she moved to run. Clint reached out and deftly grabbed her wrist.

"Hey." She turned around. "Be careful." She swallowed and nodded. Without hesitation, Clint turned and threw two chips into the crowd, and she was off as soon as they detonated, sprinting into the makeshift walkway he had just cleared. He watched her disappear through the gate with a weird feeling in his gut.

The next few minutes blurred together, with Clint devoting all his attention to keeping the guards from going after her. Then the dreaded moment came- he reached back, and felt only 4 arrow shafts. She had been gone for 4 minutes 13 seconds. Only twenty guards remained. Dropping the bow and grabbing the gun at his feet, he fired at another six, until that clicked empty as well. Raising his bow again, he thought about his options. Killing Natasha- even the _thought_ of having her blood on his hands- no, that was _not_ up for debate. But he could try to blow up the guards and not the building, buying her a few more precious seconds.

The arrow thrummed into the ground near the feet of three guards, about ten feet from the complex's entrance. Clint waited for detonation, but his eyes widened in horror when Natasha emerged from the building. Too stupefied to speak, he watched as she found the arrow dug into the soil. Turning on her heel, she ran towards the trees, but deep inside Clint knew she would never make it. And that hurt him more than he could bear to admit.

She made it three steps before the arrow exploded. The blast blew her backwards, tossing her into the side of the building. Clint watched helplessly as her head hit the wall before she crumpled to the ground.

She didn't get back up.

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**So, and I cannot stress this enough... please review. It really motivates me to write more, and I love hearing your thoughts!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi guys! Just a short one to get some things that need addressing out of the way. Sorry in advance for all the angst. Once again, a big thank you to VioletK for her feedback.**

**Read and review!**

* * *

After that, there was only an overpowering need to get to her. Turns out a surge of adrenaline and panic can work wonders- the guards, which had been formidable enemies only seconds before, began dropping like flies. He was by her side as soon as humanly possible, gently turning her over despite how internally frantic he was. He took a microsecond to look her over. If he could ignore the soot and dust streaked across her face and the pebbles in her hair, he might have thought she was sleeping. Praying to a god he had given up on more than a decade ago, he lowered his hand, pressing his thumb firmly to the underside of her wrist. There was no movement. Refusing to give up, Clint rocked back and forth on his heels, wiping at his eyes rigorously with the hand that wasn't gripping hers. "No, no, no, come on Tash…" he babbled, slapping the fingers of his other hand down on the side of her neck. For a few terrifying seconds, he felt nothing.

Then, fluttering beneath his fingertips was the weak and erratic hammering of a pulse.

* * *

Coulson sat ramrod strait aboard a SHIELD cargo plane (it was the best that he could muster in the time he had), trying to keep a calm and stoic expression fixed on his face. After he landed in the carnage of what used to be a drug cartel's secondary facility, Barton had come running up, his incapacitated partner in his arms. After boarding, he had refused to let her go for even a second, clutching her hand like a lifeline even when the medic was running his tests. In fact, he had taken his eyes off her face only to calmly tell the medic, rather explicitly, what fate would befall him if he let her die. Needless to say the kid worked a little more diligently after that.

They had been told there appeared to be no internal damage, but at the very best she would have a massive concussion when she came to. However, this all needed to be checked again as soon as they got to a hospital. When the young doctor had tried informing them gently that she might not regain consciousness, Coulson had had to physically restrain Barton, who had let loose such a string of vicious profanity it was a miracle the man didn't pass out himself. Coulson had to shake his head wryly at that- although the general consensus on base was that Romanoff was by far the more vicious of the two, Barton could certainly have given her a run for her money at that point.

But there was something very curious and decidedly odd about the whole situation. Coulson had worked with many, many agents during his time as handler. He had seen more of them injured or killed than he would like to count, but none of them had reacted quite like Barton had. Even now, he had a hand entwined with one of hers, thumb rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles, her name a silent prayer falling from his lips.

There was definitely something else there, and Coulson kicked himself for not noticing it sooner and nipping it in the bud.

He was _not_ looking forward to the conversation he was going to have with Barton when they got back to HQ.

* * *

Clint slouched in the hard plastic chair, looking over at his partner. Lying in a hospital bed under the florescent lights, she looked pale and small- _weak_ was the word that came to mind, Clint thought bitterly, clenching his fists. Natasha Romanoff was anything but weak, as she was fond of reminding everyone. But in this instance, she was completely helpless.

A doctor came in then, throwing a reproving glance his way. Clint glared back and he scurried away, pretending to be busy with rearranging antiseptics. Normally such a reaction would be funny, but right now Clint was anything but amused. He had been sitting in there for almost two days, dozing off for a few hours at a time only to be wrenched awake screaming by reliving every single incident in the last three years that had brought her close to death. He probably looked like a caveman as well, but he didn't care. All that mattered was _her, _and he'd be damned if he left for even a second before she woke up.

Settling down for another weary night, he caught one of her small hands between his, reveling in the warmth of it, solid proof that she was still hanging in there. Bringing it to his lips, he dropped a soft kiss to her palm. "Come back to me Tash," he mumbled before twining his fingers with hers, letting the warmth and steady beep of the heart monitor lull him off to sleep.

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**To the writers of all of the frantic reviews I got this week: you didn't _really_ think I would kill off Natasha, did you? I'm not big on character deaths in general, and Natasha is too awesome to die.**

**Anyway, please review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys. Just a heads up: a LOT is going to happen in this chapter ;) You're going to love me... until you won't. Anyways, I'd like to thank VioletK for getting back to me so quickly.**

**Don't forget to review!**

* * *

The noise of the heart monitor was driving her crazy, she thought irritably, getting up to turn the incessant thing off. Or she tried to. The irritation was quickly replaced by panic, as her body wouldn't obey her unspoken command. Natasha didn't even seem to be able to open her eyes. She was stuck, wanting to get up or at least thrash and scream for help, but powerless to do either.

Or was she? There seemed to be something wrapped around her hand. She might not be able to move her whole body, but certainly the infamous Black Widow could manage _that_. Focusing hard, she shakily press down with two of her fingers. The thing around her hand jerked, then squeezed back. "Nat?" an incredulous voice cut through the foggy haze. Clint! Filled with renewed vigor, she managed to squeeze what she assumed was his hand again.

"Tash, come on. Please wake up. Please," he choked out. She must be in a terrible state if he was _that_ worried. Fighting desperately against the drugs, she tried to wake up. The more she struggled, the stronger the urge to sleep became. She would have succumbed again had Clint not been repeating variations of his words, his desperate tone fueling her need. The pace of the monitor picked up, and with a last burst of energy she managed to unglue her eyelids. The fluorescent lights hurt, but Clint's face soon swam into view.

He looked terrible. Dark purple bags around his eyes, unshaven, and still covered in dust and gravel. But he seemed ecstatic to see her, and she would smile back if she wasn't afraid that small action would send her back into the coma. She managed to clear her throat a bit though, and thankfully he understood.

"Right. Just hold on." He was back soon with a cup of water, which he attempted to tip into her mouth. She ended up with a faceful of water, and blinked at him reproachfully before flicking her eyes to the remote control hanging above her head. He tipped the bed upward and she managed a few sips of the cold water. "Barton," she croaked.

"Yeah?"

"What happened?"

"We were in Brazil. Do you remember?" he asked gently. After a few moments, Natasha nodded.

"Mission."

"Right. You went into the fortress, and I ran out of most of my ammunition covering you. I tried to blow up a couple of the guards with an explosive arrow, and then you came out-" Clint swallowed hard. "I'm such an idiot."

"Not your fault," she ground out, but he only offered her a tight-lipped smile. Crap, it was going to take her _weeks_to talk him out of this one. "Where are we?" she prompted, trying to take his mind off the misplaced guilt.

"On base. We flew you back after they looked you over in Rio de Janeiro. You've been out for three days," he said before she could ask, another hard swallow following his words.

"Get me out of here," she said. He laughed incredulously at that.

"Not a chance, sweetheart. You can barely speak, let alone walk."

"Carry me," she mumbled. He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Tempting as that sounds, you've got an entire pharmacy's worth of drugs in your system, and the doctors should probably run some more tests before you leave." She glared at him.

"Idiot."

"Yeah, yeah. How's this? I'm going to call the medical personnel in now-" Natasha tried to shake her head wildly, but only managed a pathetic wobble. Thankfully he caught the gist of it. "Hear me out. I'll go get cleaned up, then grab some food from the mess and some clothes. You can change and eat, and after they confirm there's nothing wrong, I'll bust you out. Ok?"

"Ok," she mumbled. He chuckled.

"Anything you want in particular?"

"A book. Juice. And something fried so I can give the doctor an aneurysm."

"Gotcha." He moved to get up, then paused and sat back down. "Listen Nat, I-" he broke off and shook his head. "Never mind."

"What?" she said, mystified.

"It can wait. I- I'm just really, really glad you're ok." He gave a pained smile, then hightailed it out of there, leaving Natasha more perplexed than ever.

Clint was good on his word, returning an hour later laden with clothes, food, and a selection of novels. He contented himself with watching her eat while she demonstrated her ability to move her arms and fingers, probably trying to get him to discharge her without actually begging. The doctor came in just as she was finishing up, and Natasha made a show of shoving the rest of her fries in her mouth. She looked so ridiculous, cheeks puffed out as she glared at the man, that Clint couldn't help snorting with laughter.

Three hours and two medical exams later, when Natasha had regained feeling in her legs, they left the ward despite the protests of several nurses and doctors. They walked down the halls in silence, but as soon as the door to their apartment shut she turned and stretched leisurely.

"Thank god. Those people were driving me crazy, running every kind of test under the sun like I was some sort of _invalid_!" she ranted, obviously trying to lighten the mood. Normally, Clint would sympathize, but right now all he could think about was her lying there, still and pale in that hospital bed.

Offering a feeble, tight-lipped smile, he said, "Well, I think you had us all a bit worried. Even Coulson came down to visit you, and he never checks on us when we get laid up anymore."

"Please, I'm not _that_ easy to kill," she replied nonchalantly, heading towards the bathroom. Her attitude instantly replaced all the concern and guilt running through him with red-hot anger. Crossing the room in three strides, he turned her around roughly. Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Barton, what the hell is going on?"

"We need to talk about what you did," Clint replied, his voice deadly calm.

"What? You mean the part where I went and completed the mission?" Natasha said, sarcasm dripping from her every word. "Oh wait, that's our job."

"There are things more important than the _job_, Nat. I don't think anyone would have minded if we had just aborted."

"I think you're forgetting that if I hadn't gotten in there when I had, we would both be dead right now. There was no other way-"

"Exactly. We BOTH die!" Clint's voice cracked. "God dammit Tash, that doesn't bother me nearly as much as the alternative."

Natasha blinked in disbelief. "Are you saying that you would rather have died? Don't be stupid."

"You don't fucking understand!" Clint roared, punching the wall behind her head. "If you had died- if I had let you fucking _die_… I wouldn't know how to live with myself."

"Clint," she said softly. "You're not thinking straight. Be logical- the options were to complete the mission and blow the fortress or be killed by enemy fire. I _chose_ to do what I did."

"I know, and that scares the crap out of me. What if one day you do it again, and you aren't so lucky? You _have _to stop."

Her eyes flashed. "Listen, Barton. I am not weak. I do not need protecting-"

"I know you don't. But I _need_ to protect you anyway. Don't you understand? I _need_ you."

She rolled her eyes. "Please, don't be melodramatic. I'm replaceable and you know it."

"Not to me you aren't." It was shocking that she would even think that. She opened her mouth to continue, but Clint shook his head wildly. He couldn't take it anymore. Every emotion and thought known to man seemed to be racing around in his brain. Why did she have to choose this moment to be so freaking _dense_. He needed to make her understand. He needed-

Before he knew what he was doing, he had backed her against the wall and slammed his lips down on hers. Kissing her furiously, he tried to convey everything that he had tried- and failed- to tell her in words.

It took an embarrassingly long time for the ramifications of what he was doing to percolate his addled brain. As soon as he truly realized what was happening, Clint wrenched his head back, looking down at her with a panicked expression. She stared back with something unreadable in her eyes, mouth set in a firm line.

It turns out that he had had really no fucking clue what awkward silence meant until this moment.

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**Hehehe... another cliffhanger. Let me know what you think about their whole situation- it'll motivate me to update sooner!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi! I know I promised an early update, but it seems like I wrote myself into a corner in the last chapter, especially where Natasha's reaction is concerned. Anyways, I hope the wait wasn't too long and that I did ok. Thank you VioletK for all your reassurances. **

**Read and review!**

* * *

Clint shifted from foot to foot, trying desperately to find an escape route that didn't end with Natasha leaving him disemboweled on the floor. He came up blank. Trying another approach, he cleared his throat loudly, opened his mouth… and found he had nothing to say. "Uhhh," he managed before giving up.

Then shrill ringing cut through the air, and Clint had never been so happy to hear the phone ring in his entire life. Snatching it up, he put it to his ear. "Barton," he said, cursing at how squeaky his voice sounded.

"Yeah, it's Coulson. Am I interrupting something?"

"Uhh… no, not at all," Clint lied, throwing a glance at Natasha, who had not moved a muscle.

"Great. We need to talk- my office, as soon as possible."

"I'll be there in two minutes," Clint replied, snapping the phone shut.

He turned to Natasha. "Umm… I gotta…" he managed, backing away slowly until his back hit the doorknob. "Ok, bye!" he got out before he turned tail and sprinted down the halls to the safety of Coulson's office.

* * *

Clint barged into Coulson's office 11 seconds before he was due to arrive. Coulson looked up, completely startled, before knitting his brow, probably taking in his beet red face and disheveled appearance.

"Um… when you said two minutes, I thought you just meant soon."

"Yeah, me too," Clint gasped, and Coulson started looking even more confused.

"Are you all right? You seem a bit… flustered."

Clint chuckled wryly. "Boy, you have no idea." Coulson shot him his signature look, the one that always seemed to say _I don't even want to know_.

"So… what's up?" Clint said, taking a seat.

"Right. I need to talk to you about Romanoff." Suddenly, all the nervous energy pent up within him reached some unknown limit, and Clint exploded in laughter, almost falling out of his chair as he gaffawed. Coulson waited patiently for the giggles to subside, looking decidedly unimpressed.

Finally, Clint wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, blinking rapidly. "Oh god, you have absolutely fantastic timing."

"Yeah, ok… could you focus?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"Ok. So, I noticed some… abnormalities on the plane to Rio de Janeiro. As you know, SHIELD has some rules and policies in place to protect its assets- keeping them from additional harm. I need to know if you are honoring these policies." Coulson finished, and looked at Clint expectantly.

"Um… was I supposed to draw some sort of cryptic meaning from that?"

Coulson face palmed. "For Christ's sake, how did you not get that?"

"Well, I kind of stopped listening as soon as you turned into a human SHIELD protocol manual." Coulson sighed.

"Fine. These rules are especially important when it comes to partners. Sometimes, when agents get too close, it causes a lot of unnecessary suffering when things go wrong." It was starting to dawn on Clint exactly what they were talking about.

"Oh, come on Coulson. You can't seriously think Tash and I are…"

"I don't know what to think right now," his handler sighed. "But I do know what I saw on that plane. I know you two are close, but that was almost… intimate."

"For God's sake, we aren't having sex!" Clint yelled.

"You know perfectly well that's not what I meant," Coulson replied smoothly.

"Yes it is," Clint hissed.

"There are other ways for a person to get in over their head. I've been aware of the way you've been looking at her for some time now. I don't know if she's noticed, or if she reciprocates, but you need to know it can only hurt you both-" Clint couldn't take it anymore, and slammed his hand down on the desk.

"I get it. But now you need to listen to what _I've_ got to say. Do you honestly think you can try to analyze why I freaked out when she almost _died_? We're close because she _understands_, and she knows I do too. We're alone- don't you dare say we're not. She's all I've got, and I'm pretty sure all of that is _reciprocated_, even if nothing else is."

His rant was greeted with silence, before Coulson spoke up. "That's the exact sentiment we are trying to prevent here. No one is talking about reassignment or termination-"

"Do not talk about us as if we're a target or some sort of pawn," Clint said heatedly.

"I need to know if you're compromised," Coulson said firmly.

"I'm not."

"Alright then." Coulson straightened some papers on his desk, steadfastly avoiding eye contact. "In light of Romanoff's injury, Fury has granted both of you two weeks leave."

"Fantastic. Are we done here?" Clint asked sullenly. Coulson nodded, lips pursed, and Clint stood to leave.

"For the record, she has never let me down. And I'll trust her not to start," Clint said coldly before turning.

He had his hand on the doorknob when Coulson stopped him. "Clint." Clint froze- Coulson _never_ called him by his first name.

"Are you in love with her?" the words were like a punch to the gut. Clint squeezed his eyes shut.

"No."

He spent the rest of the walk down to the shooting range trying to convince himself he had told the truth.

* * *

The slam of the door finally brought her back to her senses. Natasha sagged against the wall, letting out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She tried to think about what the fuck had just happened, but couldn't for the life of her concentrate. Her partner had just _kissed_ her. _Clint_ had just shoved her against the wall and kissed the hell out of her. Variations of that thought spun around in her head. Natasha clenched her jaw before stomping into her room. She needed to hit something.

Later, as she pummeled one of SHIELD's punching bags, her brain finally allowed her to start some kind of thought process. Clint had kissed her, but under the circumstances that could mean almost anything. It might have been sheer desperation, but it could just as easily have been something much more. She had noticed the way he sometimes stared at her when he didn't think she was looking quite a while back. But it was too big a risk to take, just assuming that he did it because he was actually attracted to her in _that _way. The logical part of her brain told her the best course of action would be to just pretend it had never happened and wait for his next move, but that felt instinctually wrong. Clint might think of that as outright rejection, and who knows what might happen then. Goddammit, why did everything just get so _complicated_?

An especially hard kick accompanied her words, and the abused punching bag fell off its chain… directly onto her. Wheezing, she shoved it off, but remained lying on the floor. The cold hard truth of it was that she was terrified- a reaction completely inappropriate for the Black Widow. She needed Clint, and not just as a partner in the field. He had brought her back and saved her life, but the debt went way beyond that. He had given her a _rea_son to live. He had shown her it was ok to have a life outside of missions and training, and she had had more fun even during the first month than at any other point in her life. He had made sure she never felt alone, and was always there when she needed him. And she _did _need him- more than the air she breathed, despite how goddamn cheesy that sounded. And he expected nothing in return, except that she stay.

She was not going to back out of that now. He was her best and possibly only friend, and the only man she trusted with her life. She shook her head wryly. She definitely found Clint attractive, but had never acted on it for fear that it would damage whatever it was they had. Fate had a funny way of twisting things around.

Maybe they both just needed more time, whatever that meant. They needed to think things over, and Natasha made up her mind to do just that for the next few days. Rolling to her feet, she rehung the punching bag and started training again, this time at a saner pace.

She steadfastly ignored the fact that for a microsecond there, she seriously contemplated kissing him back.

* * *

Clint stumbled back into his apartment. The hours at the archery range had helped him deduce only one thing- he needed to talk to Natasha. His heart sank through the floor when he noticed light peering out of the bottom of the door to her old room. They had taken to sleeping in the same bed more often than not over the last few years. It had begun with Natasha cautiously seeking him out for comfort after a particularly nasty dream about the Red Room. After a few of her midnight visits, each had taken to going to the other whenever they had had a nightmare. Then Sao Paolo happened. During the next few weeks, both of them woke up screaming several times a night. One day, they had simply fallen into the same bed, clinging to each other through it all. It had become a habit after that. The light under her door sent a crystal clear message- she didn't want to see him.

Trudging into his room, Clint rolled onto his bed, cursing himself for being such a complete idiot and fervently hoping he hadn't lost her for good.

Then he pressed his face into a pillow and let loose a muffled scream of frustration, because, despite how bone tired he was, it was difficult to fall asleep without her small body curled around his.

* * *

**Please let me know what you think!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hi guys. Sorry for the long break between chapters- I've kind of neglected my summer homework, and the last 2 weeks haven't been much fun. I know you're all eager to see what happens, but first...**

**This story has reached over 100 followers! I had no idea this was so popular, but I'm really glad it is. So thank you all for the support, it means alot to me!**

**Read and review!**

* * *

Clint was being a nuisance. It reminded Natasha a bit of the first weeks of their partnership- the same intoxicating game of cat and mouse. Knowing he was going to do his absolute best to seek her out, Natasha had purposefully avoided all her regular haunts. For the next few days, Natasha stayed several steps ahead of him almost effortlessly. After all, she was the spy- Clint had learned all his little tricks from her. But to her chagrin, he refused to give up.

Given the circumstances, she really should have expected what came next.

Slipping out of her room at the crack of dawn like she had the last few nights, Natasha crept towards the door, careful not to disturb anything. Keeping a wary eye on her partner's door led her to miss something very, very obvious.

"It's a bit early, don't you think?" Natasha had pulled her knife as soon as the first syllable left his lips, but held onto it when she recognized the voice. Sighing, she turned and flipped the light switch, revealing Clint sitting at the kitchen table, looking decidedly unamused. It would be funny how similar this encounter was to the one they had had early in their partnership had the context not been so very wrong.

"What do you want, Barton?" He winced.

"Are we back to that as well?"

"It depends. What do you want?"

"To talk."

"Yes, because that worked so well for you last time," Natasha scoffed. Clint's eyes hardened.

"At least I'm trying to communicate. What the fuck are you doing? Does this," he gestured wildly, "mean _nothing_ to you?"

"Of course it does," Natasha said through gritted teeth.

"Well, what the hell are you trying to accomplish by ignoring me?"

Natasha opened her mouth to respond, and found she had absolutely nothing to say. "I don't _know_," she conceded. "But unlike _you_, I don't need to hug everything out. I thought you would understand, but clearly you don't."

"I get that you need your space, but this isn't just going to go away overnight. I'm afraid-"

"Of what?" Natasha yelled. "God, it's not like I've moved out. Just because everyone you've ever loved has left you doesn't mean I'm going to!" He stares at her, dumbstruck, his eyes flashing with pain and barely controlled anger and something else she can't place, and she immediately wishes she could take it all back.

"I- God, Clint, I didn't-" she stuttered, fumbling for the right words. He's still staring at her with that expression, and then all of a sudden it fades, his eyes darkening and fixed on hers with an intensity that's absurdly calming, and he sighs.

"I know, Nat, I know. Just- don't shut me out. Not again." For some inexplicable reason, his defeated expression and words cause white-hot anger to flare up inside her again. She wants to mock him for being weak, scoff at his request, _anything_ to make him stop looking at her with such raw disappointment.

Instead, she closes her eyes and tells him what he wants to hear. "I won't," she mumbles before leaving, afraid that if she stays she'll say something she'll regret.

She feels like such a coward with that justification when she knows that she just made things ten times worse.

* * *

Clint shot awake, grabbing for the pistol on his bedside table before fully realizing what had woken him. Turning his head wildly, he spotted his door, which had been opened just a crack.

"Who's there?" he asked, voice rough with sleep.

"Relax, just me," he heard, and immediately set the gun back down.

"Tash?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, you can come in."

"Right," she said softly, opening the door enough for her small frame to slip through. Leaning awkwardly against the wall, she stared at him. After a few seconds, Clint finally noticed her hands trembling slightly.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked.

She gave a short, breathless laugh. "It's two in the morning and I'm standing in your room. What could possibly be wrong?" Her voice shook as she said the words, and concern banished all traces of bewilderment left in him.

She shifted her feet slightly. "I know we haven't exactly been getting along these last few days, but do you think I can…" she gestured in his direction.

"God, Tash, you never have to ask." He beckoned, and Natasha walked over and hesitantly climbed into bed, turning to face him.

Clint reached out out of habit to wrap his arms around her, then stopped, unsure how she would react. "Is this ok?" he asked.

"Yes," she breathed, shifting a little closer to him and burying her head in his chest as he hugged her close to him. He breathed in the scent of her hair and ran his hands up and down her back, exhaling a sigh of relief at how _good_ it felt to have her here again. After a few minutes of whispered reassurances and rocking, the shaking had mostly subsided, and she lay quietly in his arms, playing with the sleeve of his shirt.

"You want to talk about it now?" he whispered, fiddling with a lock of her hair.

"I think so," she said hesitantly.

"What did you dream about?" he asked as gently as he could.

"You," she whispered, and Clint froze in shock. "In Sao Paolo. Only this time I didn't get there fast enough-" her words were cut off by a strangled and animalistic sound, and Clint realized she had started crying.

"Hey, shh..." he said, pulling her impossibly closer. "I'm here. I'm alive. We both are. You're safe," he whispered over and over until the sobs subsided. Eventually, she rolled over, tucking herself into his side, and he shifted as well, slinging an arm over her waist.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"No problem," he said, and they lay there in comfortable silence. "Hey, Tash?" he whispered a while later.

"Hmm?"

"The other day…"

"Let's not do this now," she said tiredly.

"Don't worry… It's just… What I said about you. I meant it."

She turned slightly and settled her head on his chest, ear pressed up right against his heart. "I know, Clint," she sighed. "Me too." Those few words spoke volumes, and Clint found himself lost as to what else to say, so he just pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. Reveling in the feel of her pressed up against him, Clint drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The first thing she noticed when she woke was how safe and warm she felt- the uncommon warmth that spread through her some mornings, when she really doesn't want to move. She was curled up in bed, and she knew Clint was next to her without looking, even though they rolled apart sometime during the night. It was the soft little grunt he gave when he exhaled, the unique scent on the pillow under her head.

Eventually, Natasha opened her eyes and propped herself up on one elbow, studying him. He lay sprawled out on his stomach, head facing her, looking happier than he'd been in days without the line etched between his eyebrows. She reached out, grazing her fingertips along his cheek, then froze as he wrinkled his nose slightly and gave a little snort before shifting. It was so endearing and childish she had to smile.

It fades as she recalled the events of the previous night. He had held her, comforted her when she'd needed him despite the crappy way she'd been treating him mere hours earlier. She'd come in, scared and shaky, and he'd forgiven her just like that. What had she done to deserve someone like that?

The truth was she had never been nice to him. Never responded to any of his stupid jokes except to mock him, never told him how much he meant to her, though he reminded her constantly. She had never shown any romantic inclinations towards him whatsoever, choosing to ignore or laugh off the slightest advance. And yesterday she had only gone back to him for her own sake, taking what she needed and giving nothing back.

She was downright cruel to him, all things considered, and she knew it. Yet he still wanted her around.

She stared down at him for a few moments, a heavy feeling in her chest, before another one of his little grunts snapped her out of her daze. Then she quietly rolled off the bed and left the room.

* * *

Clint lay in bed, heart sinking as she left the room without waking him. Maybe last night hadn't changed things after all.

He had been drifting in the limbo between sleeping and waking for at least a half hour before she'd woken. He had stayed quiet, feigning sleep, curious as to what she would do next. When she touched him, he had come dangerously close to being discovered, but passed it off as him shifting to get comfortable. He was perplexed as to why she just lay there for another minute, waiting with his heart in his throat and a dangerous hope racing through him. But then she'd left, and everything came crashing back to earth.

He flipped onto his back, sighing before dragging himself out of bed. There was no use lying around moping.

Despite his conviction that she had scampered off again, Clint couldn't resist a quick sweep of the apartment. Naturally, she wasn't there, and Clint felt like a complete fool, hurt beyond words. Wallowing in self-pity, he made his way to the kitchen. His hand brushed up against warm ceramic when he reached for the coffee maker. Looking down, he spotted a cup of milky liquid, still steaming slightly. He sniffed at it cautiously, and the scent of cream and sugar confirmed his suspicions. This was _his_ coffee- the kind with 4 spoons of sugar and countless packs of creamer, the one Natasha wouldn't come within three feet of. And that could mean only one thing.

Grinning, he lifted it to his lips, taking a sip before his eyes fell on a scrap of paper next to the toaster.

_In the gym, whenever you're ready._

Clint showed up within 5 minutes, grinning like an idiot and trying to talk normally despite his severely burned tongue.

* * *

**So... tell me what you think!**

**Yesterday was my birthday, and my wish to you guys is to reach 100 reviews before this story is done. It shouldn't be too hard (it's at 84 at last count), but it would really make my day and be a healthy boost to my ego.**

**On another note, school starts for me tomorrow, so the updates are going to be a bit further apart. I'll aim for at least one every 10 days, but that might not be possible all the time.**


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